Another Take
by Lady Dementia
Summary: A series of tilted perspectives in the Beast Wars.
1. Chapter 1

_Hasbro owns the characters. It's that simple._

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A Wish**

**by Lady Dementia**

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**I wonder sometimes, if what I do is right. But am I disloyal to think such things? I don't know. I don't have anyone I could ask. No friends, no team members I could trust. Friends in this faction only means you don't have to watch for a frontal assault. You should watch your back at all times. 

I think about who I might have been, had I not been reprogrammed. Would I still feel loyalty, but only to someone else? Would that have really been any better? I don't know.

I could break through my faulty programming. I know I can. But I don't want to. If I'm blindly loyal, I don't have to think about these things. Oh, I do sometimes, but only occasionally.

This is one of those occasions, I guess. Sentry duty on such a beautiful night as this brings that part of me out. I stare up into the stars, and think of what might have been, and what could still be.

I understand more than anyone knows. I'm not stupid, or really insane, but it's easier to be that way. It's easier than making decisions or standing up to anyone. I just do what I'm told.

The easy way out is made even easier by my system errors. It's convenient that my beast mode can take over. That's probably why I seem insane.

But I don't fight it. Why should I? This war is a dead end anyway. History has already been written. The fighting is futile.

Ah, forget these questions. They only confuse me more. But, still...I wish I knew who I used to be, or who I could have been...

* * *

"_Inferno!"_ Megatron's voice came over the soldier's comm, shattering the still night air. 

Inferno shook himself out of his thoughts, throwing them into the back of his mind for another night. "Yes, My Queen?"

"_DON'T CALL ME THAT! And report to me at once."_

"At once, My Qu--Royalty." Inferno turned to go into the base. He cast one last look over his shoulder at the stars. One fell across the sky.

* * *

I _wish_...

* * *


	2. Balance

_When you walk a fine line between opposites, it's important to keep your balance._

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**Balance**

**by Lady Dementia**

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I try to keep myself balanced. It's harder than it sounds.

Some days I can feel confused and off-balanced until I get the time to do this. This morning was one of those times. But I'm off-shift now, and my door is closed and locked. That's a signal to everyone that I won't be coming out for anything less than an attack.

I stand in the middle of my quarters, breathing deeply and slowly. My recharge platform has my single chair stacked on top of it, out of my way. The table is shoved up against the wall next to it, leaving the rest of the room's floor bare. I spend little time here, so decorations are few and mostly on the walls. I study them as I set my feet carefully and begin.

Breath in; breath out.

An intricate web strung in between two forked branches that Tarantulas once gave me as a gift is hung in one corner. It's large, and if the rest of the Maximals ever ask where I got it from, I will lie and say that I made it myself, or maybe that I stole it from the Predacon tarantula. They would be uneasy if they knew that he had made it specially for me way back when I was fresh from my statis pod. At the time, he had touched my shoulder and presented it to me as something to study; to learn to copy. My natural instincts urge me to make messy, slack webs that don't look anything like the neatly taunt lines between the sticks, and it was a perfectly rational explanation for giving me the web. But the touch on my shoulder told me it was more than a study piece from teacher to student.

My breathing is calm and steady, although the air I draw in is only used to cool my internal systems and keep my organic beast mode functioning without oxygen deprivation. My feet have found a part of the flooring that is just textured enough to keep me from slipping. I close my optics and choose a side. For today, I'll use my right. It's always good to keep myself ambidextrous, and I've been relying on my left side for most of the morning.

Breath in; breath out.

I've moved a little, so that when I open my optics again I'm looking more at one wall than the corner where the web is suspended between walls. A flat sheet of obsidian, the beautiful black glass produced by lava, is secured at eye level by holes drilled through it with nails holding it to the wall. Lines have been etched into the black glass, then polished so the edges are smooth and the picture seems to flow out of the natural rock. The black widow spider has long, delicate legs and a body that looks almost ridiculously tiny in comparison to the length of her legs, but that's not what makes the picture so pretty. Both eyes and hourglass on the carved spider aren't carved out of the glass sheet like the rest of the body; instead, they stand out and are polished to a silky finish, showing off the bands of subtle colors revealed inside the black obsidian when light shines on it. I had never suspected Silverbolt of being an artist, but he had presented me with it not long after I had allied with the Maximals. At the time, I had looked for an underlying motive like the Predacons always have, but I found only his pleasure at watching me examine his work of art. He isn't like Tarantulas.

My eyes close again as I extend my arms in front of myself, keeping them close to my lower body and curved towards each other. My feet shift a little, testing the floor. My right foot catches on a particular place, and so I ground myself, secure in my footing. With that done, I center my right leg over my foot, then center my body over my right leg. Ground and center; the basics of balance. My right side is the part of my body which will have to balance what the rest is doing. My body will depend on how well my right side does. I put very little weight on my left foot, now, and I hold myself still without tensing up. Tensing causes muscle cables to tremble with the effort, and the tremors can move me off my center. I'm not relaxed, but I won't have to tense up unless I shift off my center. There isn't much effort required if I'm centered.

Breath in; breath out.

Ground and center.

I test myself, mentally and physically, and judge that I am beginning to balance. It's a relief after the uncertainty of the morning.

My optics flicker open. I've moved again, and now I'm looking at the area between the web and the obsidian. I can look at either one without moving my head, which would upset my center. I glance between them, comparing. Each one was a gift, and each one is beautiful in its own way. Tarantulas's gift has the beauty of our shared nature in it. I've learned to spin webs like his by now, and I can appreciate the time it took to make something so near perfection. Web-spinning is a kind of art all its own, but, on the other hand, it's something that comes to him naturally because of his beast mode. Carvings like the one Silverbolt did are not natural. The colors trapped inside the black glass would not have been exposed without the careful carving and polishing that he did. He didn't tell me how long it took him to make me the carving, but I know it must have taken a very long time. It's not perfect. If I look closely, I can see where etched lines have been smoothed out. But, somehow, the imperfections make it seem more precious. On the basis of beauty, I can't decide which one I like more.

Breath in; breath out.

Ground and center.

I'm ready to start.

Very slowly, I lift my left heel off the floor, up the side of my right foot. My right knee is bent slightly, enough that I won't strain it, and my left heel is curved around my right ankle joint. The toe of my foot slides up after it, bringing all of my weight to bear on my right leg. My body sways a small amount; my foot rolls to its outer edge with the weight shift and my ankle joint stiffens to prevent me from falling over. It works. I'm now standing on one leg, right foot turned out a bit and left foot pointed downwards along my ankle. I'm centered once more; my right foot doesn't slide along the floor with the added stress of all my weight. I keep my arms motionless for now.

I let my eyes return to the spot between the two gifts, effortlessly holding my pose until I think I'm ready to move on to the next step. I can vaguely see the web and the carving out of the corners of my vision, but I can't see any details. That's alright. I'm not thinking of their physical beauty right now; I'm thinking about the emotions behind them. Silverbolt's puppyish look as he gave the obsidian to me contrasted with his elegant speech about why he chose to give me it. The black glass because I'm his "Dark Lady", but also because glass is fragile. I suppose he's right, although he thinks that I am delicate and in need of care just because I'm female. I think I am like the carving because if the glass is off-balance, it will fall to the hard floor and break, but even then the pieces will be sharp-edged. The black widow spider was for obvious reasons, but he insists the subtle colors in the hourglass and eyes are because softer parts of me show through the Predacon image I have of myself. The softer parts he means are the feelings I have for him. He could be right. The reason he gave me the carving is easy to see, maybe because he's a Maximal, but maybe also just because he's like that. He loves me. He disobeyed his commanding officer blatantly just because he loves me. He gave me something he worked hard on just because he loves me. Perhaps he had an underlying motive that was related, like getting appreciation for his work or even what I'm doing now: thinking about him as I look at it. If so, I'm touched instead of threatened. I like the lady treatment I get from him, and it's nice getting something with a harmless plot behind it.

Breath in; breath out.

Ground and center.

Next step.

Moving slowly and carefully, I bend my left knee and turn my left leg out to the side at the same time. My foot slides up the side of my right calf in one slow, drawn-out motion that ends with my left foot against the side of my right knee joint. I try not to put any pressure against the joint, but inevitably I do. My center immediately shifts, and my entire right side tenses to counter the sudden motion. Moving quickly now, I keep my leg turned out while my left toe edges forward until it is in front of my right knee joint and resting in the natural indent right underneath it. I have to keep my foot pointed in order for it to fit, but as soon as it curls underneath my knee joint, my center settles once again. My arms are still extended low in front of me; my right foot is still securely placed on the floor. The momentary unbalance is over, and I'm once again comfortably centered on one foot.

Tarantulas's gift isn't as innocent as Silverbolt's. I'd know that just by his personality. It's not like him to give something without a plan behind it. At the time he had given it to me, I had barely been out of my statis pod for three days. He had taken me under his care immediately after I got out despite Megatron's attempts to appeal to me. I didn't like the purple dinosaur from the start. A pity that I didn't think that about Tarantulas at the beginning. Instead, I had listened intently to everything he said and done what he told me to do. To be fair, he did teach me quite a lot, and he developed several of the abilities I have now. But I know now that he was just using me. I realized it soon after the gift of the web, really. The gift was just a ploy to make me become emotionally dependent on him, make me think that he might love me. Even now, though, even knowing what an expert liar he is, I still think there was something real in the touch on my shoulder when he gave me the web. And I've scanned the thing dozens of times and found nothing even remotely wrong with it. It's what it appears to be: a web meant to teach me how to spin in a different style. Maybe something more; Tarantulas might have had some feelings for me at one time, just as I had some for him early on. But Predacon life moved on, plots came and went, and the mind-link he forced on me shattered whatever lingering softness I had harbored for him. What we might have possibly shared was left at a tender touch on my shoulder, and a gift of webbing hung on my wall.

Breath in; breath out.

Ground and center.

I feel more balanced now than when I started, and I'm on only one foot right now. It's a mental and physical balancing, and it's time to start the next movement. I'm ready, yet I'm not. I never think I am until it's over.

My left knee lifts upwards, and my left foot draws clear of my right leg entirely for the first time. I keep my center over my right leg as I slowly rotate my left hip until my knee no longer points vertically to the side, but horizontally. My left leg is now bent at the knee and held parallel to the floor behind me. I roll my weight forward onto the ball of my right foot just slightly to compensate as I gradually shift my knees, straightening my left leg and bending my right leg a bit more. Now I finally move my arms from their curved positions, sweeping my right arm, elbow barely bent, up level with my shoulders in front and my left arm, in the same pose as my right only behind me. My wrists and pincers are relaxed enough to look elegant. I hold my shoulders down to keep my center in place, but my upper body is now turned a tiny bit to my left side so that my left leg and both my arms are on a straight line. It's easier to keep myself balanced from front to back with them that way. The foot still on the ground shifts with my weight until I position my left leg, fully extended and foot pointed, parallel to the ground, and then I settle into my center again, chin up. It's not as easy to keep my footing in this pose, but I grounded well when I began this. It helps.

My movement has turned me to face Silverbolt's carving again. I can hardly see the web from my position this time, and I guess that's as it should be. After all, now I'm focusing on my relationship in the here and now, right? Then why do I even have Tarantulas's gift still? I might be sentimental...or I might still have feelings for him. It could happen. I'm not even sure if I love Silverbolt, really. I'm not even sure what love is. Is it friendship on a deeper level? Is it trust beyond what I had with the Predacons; trust that he won't hurt me? There is no concrete definition of love. In reality, it's pretty hard to define what any emotion is. Silverbolt says that he loves me, I've seen no evidence that proves otherwise, he gave me the obsidian picture, and yet...yet, still, I hate him. I can't help it, I suppose. I'm a Predacon by programming, and Predacon programming keeps telling me to kill the Maximals. Maybe that's my attraction to Tarantulas. I hate him, too, but I still keep the gift he gave me, still imagine that there was something in that touch. I can FEEL Silverbolt's love, though; it isn't my imagination.

Breath in; breath out.

Ground and center.

And now the hardest part: balancing.

My right leg, which is supporting my entire body, is bent, and my right foot is flat on the ground. Slowly, carefully, at the same time, I straighten my right leg and roll all of my weight onto the ball of my foot. My heel leaves the ground, and I shift even further forward, until I am only touching the ground with the tip of my foot. I tense and relax different parts of my body, keeping my shoulders down and torso tightly controlled and upright. At this point, I could lose my center to either side and come down onto the side of my foot, possibly breaking my ankle joint, or overbalance front or back, forcing me to awkwardly take a step to keep from falling. I could, but I don't; I am on the toe of my right foot, a position known as "on point", and in a pose known as an "arabesque". Both are terms from a dance form called ballet, and the combination is extremely difficult, but my body is perfectly balanced. Once I've found my center, it is easy to stay poised.

I see an obsidian spider separated from her web as I center. Tarantulas's web is as beautiful as it is deadly, but I am likely to be tangled in the plots behind the webbing. That adds, in a way, to its appeal. I love, perhaps, the image I made of Tarantulas, and the qualities I see in him. He is an ideal Predacon, really, and I'm attracted to that. But I hate him for what he's done. And Silverbolt is a Maximal, the faction I hate, and I think that I love him for what he's done. His gift is beautiful and deadly in a different way, but he acknowledges that the black widow has subtle layers, and he works on bringing them into view without any intent to use me. The spider belongs in the dangerous web, but is separate. She separated herself because of the carver, Silverbolt. But she's still a black widow, and black widows belong in webs catching those that wander in.

I am a Predacon among Maximals, loving what I hate. I can only hope to achieve balance between what I am and what I feel. In the Beast Wars, being out of balance can get me killed.

And now, finally, I have reached true balance.

Breath in; breath out.

Ground and center.

* * *

A knock came on the door, and the moment ended. Tipping forward, she stumbled to keep herself from falling down. "What!" 

"Beloved, are you well? You have been in your quarters for a long time..."

Blackarachnia sighed, hating the interruption but walking towards the door anyway. She opened it and looked up. "I'm fine, Bowser. I was just doing some exercises." Spontaneously smiling, she linked her arm through Silverbolt's. It felt good; it felt RIGHT. She avoided thinking that she was touching a Maximal.

He smiled back at her. "I am glad that you are well. Optimus has--"

"Let's go for a walk, Rover," she said abruptly. He looked at her curiously but nodded, and they strolled down the corridor. She didn't forget to lock her door on the way, though. She didn't want to have someone wander in and see the web in the corner or the spider on the wall.

It might upset her balance.

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	3. Broken Wings

_Who exactly did this person love?_

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_**Broken Wings**

**By Lady Dementia

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He doesn't even look up when I walk past, on most days. The rest of the time he gives me an absent nod, or maybe he'll even greet me by name. That's it. Nothing more. I'm no different than anyone else in his optics. To him, I'm just one of his fellow Maximals. Just one of the guys.

I used to walk by him a lot. It was a painful hope, but someday he might have looked up with a smile, or maybe he'd stop me and ask about something. Anything. It didn't matter what, as long as I was talking to him. As long as he would see me as someone other than just a comrade.

I was so pathetic. I wonder, did the others see me staring at him with love in my optics? Did they pity me, knowing that it was hopeless?

But how could I have known? Why shouldn't I have had a chance at attracting his attention? He meant so much to me. He still does. After all, he brought me online and fought off the Predacons to give my statis pod time to finish scanning for my beast mode. I climbed out, and the first time I saw him my spark grew butterfly wings. He's smart, he's handsome, and I adored him!

He didn't even notice. He nods to me, he might say my name, and he can't even tell that his casual friendship broke my delicate wings. They should have set me free, fluttering in me every time he glanced my way, but instead they merely beat against my fear. I didn't dare say anything. I tried—oh, I tried!—to get him to notice me, but although every attempt felt blatant to me, they were apparently too subtle. Or he was deliberately ignoring me.

Either way, I was too shy to try any longer after one desperate bid for attention left Rattrap and Cheetor looking at me funny. My butterfly wings broke and my spark fell.

Did any of them see me dragging my broken wings around after that day? I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know. No one has ever brought it up, though, and so I'll content myself with saying that broken wings hurt. My spark ached, it hurt so much. After a while, even though it didn't seem possible, the ache started to leave. My broken butterfly wings dropped off, and the pain went with them.

That was when I realized someone had been courting me all along. Subtly, so subtly, but it was courting. I would never have noticed if I hadn't tried something so subtle myself. At first I was uncertain, and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't push him away to be hurt like me, but…

…after a while, I realized that I didn't WANT to push him away. My spark was growing wings again; more slowly, not in an instance like before, and not butterfly wings, but they were growing. Every once and a while I would feel these strange wings beating painfully, and I'd wonder if this was really worth it. I'd withdraw for a bit while, and the pain would ebb. I didn't understand why there was pain at all. Was I risking my new wings? Would he, too, break them?

The questions tormented me until one day I just blurted them out. But he didn't laugh at me or ask me what I meant. He simply smiled at me and asked me if I trusted him.

I stared back at him and felt wings beating. Could I trust him with them? My confusion, my pain, my memories—they all clamored inside me, and I had to decide. Did I? Could I?

Yes. To cage or set free these strange wings, I trusted him. I told him so.

The pain went away.

* * *

She walked by him on her way out of the Axalon. He barely looked up. "Airazor?" 

"Yeah?"

"Going out on patrol?"

"Yep."

"With Tigatron, right?"

She chuckled. She was kind of surprised that he had noticed. "Of course."

"Nice day for it."

"Always is." If he had been looking, he would have seen the content smile settle on her face. "Have a good day, Rhinox."

The rhino was already absorbed in whatever he had been doing. "Mmhmm."

Airazor only laughed.

* * *

Maybe we could have had something, Rhinox and I, but butterfly wings are fragile at best. I'm happy, though. I left my broken butterfly wings behind because in truth, they never fit me very well. It took Tigatron to show me that my spark had the wings of a hawk--

--and he helped me fly again.


	4. Cheat To Win

_How high are you willing to bet?

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**Cheat To Win**

**by Lady Dementia**

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I've made my choice. 

In more ways than one, but this one brought me to a quick defeat. The computer hands revealed their cards to show two pairs: two aces, two nines. I had two pairs, too, but in this game I was playing the aces as the high card. I didn't have any.

The computer won handily. _New Game?_

"Yeah."

_Aces high?_

"Always are."

_Unknown command. Aces high?_

"Yeah."

The computer dealt while I leaned back in my chair and considered the stakes of the game. Not this one; I didn't particularly care how much money I lost. It didn't matter anyway. My hand was slag, but I played it anyway. I lost again and set the game up once more, aces high.

I watched the holographic hands deal the cards, not really seeing them. These choices were just to fill the time until the game came to a real close.My hands hit the keys without thinking about it, and I kept losing.

Around me the command room was silent. No cat claws clicking; no raptor hisses. I didn't hear Optimus Primal's voice, and there was no trace of Rhinox. The last I had seen of Tigatron and Airazor was them together in their quarters. Now I was alone here, waiting for the end of the game.

_Game ended. Computer wins. New Game?_

Not THIS game. "Yeah."

_Aces high?_

"Yeah."

The computer dealt, and I looked at my hand. Pure slag. But with a quick couple of commands keyed into the computer...much better. Aces high in MY favor this time. I won. I had cheated, but I had won. It's all about winning, after all. It doesn't matter how you get the result as long as you actually get it.

I'd always known that one day I'd have to use my aces. I'd been lucky for so long that cheating hadn't seemed necessary. I'd cashed in on other people's chips for so long that I'd forgotten what it was like to cash in on my own. But I still remembered how to cheat, and all those aces I'd been stashing away were going to pay off. A couple quick moves, and BAM! I win the game.

But if I was going to cash in after so long, so was everyone else in the game. A tiny part of my mind is screaming that this is insane, that I've snapped finally; the strain of a gambler's life had finally caught up with me. I'd seen it happen before, people betting it all in the hopes of winning for good, but I had something that they didn't have. I had my aces. There was no winner in this game but me. My game; my call. Cheating to win, but I win all the same.

That part of my mind is insisting that there'd be no winners, least of all me. But I know better. I haven't snapped. I'm not insane. I'm just cashing in for the last time on my winnings.

* * *

Rattrap heard the lift activate, bringing someone--no, a group of someones--into the Axalon. He didn't look away from the computer as it dealt a new hand. Two quick key commands, and he'd changed the cards he'd been dealt into winners. He won the game again.

They were spreading out behind him, surrounding him. He could hear them; see their reflections in the computer screen. Megatron, Terrorsaur, Tarantulas, Blackarachnia, and Waspinator. They were all staring at him in what he thought was horror. He didn't know why. The explosion outside hadn't damaged HIM at all. Oh, true, he had a couple splatters of mech-fluid on him, but it wasn't from his body. Maybe that's why they seemed so shocked. It was just cheating! As Predacons, they should understand that. If you take out the other players in the game, you're practically guaranteed to win. And what did the Maximals really mean to him, anyway? They were just losers in the game. HE was a winner.

In front of him, hidden from their sight, the timer continued its inevitable countdown towards zero. Not long until his aces went into action. Cheat to win if that was the only way. A part of his mind might still have a couple protests, but his aces would win the game.

And everyone would cash in their chips with him.

* * *

I wouldn't cheat in the next hand. Just for kicks, just to see what happened. I only had time for one more game, anyway. 

Five.

_Game over. New Game?_

Four.

"Yeah."

Three.

_Aces high?_

Two.

"Yeah."

One.

_You lose._

Zero.

_Game over._

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	5. Death Do Us Part

_Is the price of restraint worth freedom?

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**Death Do Us Part  
by Lady Dementia 

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It beat at him, day after day, night after night. Not physically, although that did add to the problem, but mentally. Steady pulses, like little electric shocks, that never ended. Whispers in the darkness that never relented.

"Give in to me," the crab whispered to him. "Let me be whole again."

But he resisted. He knew what would happen if he didn't, and anything was better than that. To set the crab's spark free in his body would be to give in to the murderous impulses that clamored inside it. It would be victory for the crab and death for all that faced them.

"Would that be so bad? Let that idiotic saurian and his pathetic troops suffer!"

But the Maximals? They, too, would die.

"Again, would that be bad?"

But he knew them, had been a fellow fighter by their sides, had even been...friends...with them; Rattrap, Optimus Primal, Rhinox, Cheetor, and Silverbolt.

"So?"

He could not betray their lives. It would be against his honor.

"You are Megatron's drone!"

True. The programming Megatron had placed in his new body controlled him, but he knew that he could break through if he needed to. Why didn't he, then? If his mind and honor were intact, why did he submit to the Predacon commander's rule? Why follow orders that placed his former comrades in danger? Why did he not free himself?

"Yes, why don't you?"

Because in reality he was NOT strong enough to resist the eternal, immortal pulse of the spark in his chest. The constant whispers would wear him down, confuse him until he would only be able to side with Rampage. His spark wasn't really present; his mind was merely borrowing the one placed in his chest. Had Megatron realized what he had done by cloning a new form for his old enemy, he would have destroyed him and put Rampage's spark back in the controlling box.

But he didn't know that anything but a drone was inside this serrated body. He didn't know about the endless whispers or the honorable mind. Why? Because it suited this mind better to remain captured by the obedient programming, even though he had the strength to overcome it. Because the whispers would overcome HIM once he was free, and he would be helpless to resist this enemy inside him. It was no shame on his memory that he follow the orders of the mad tyrant; he was thwarting the plans of someone much more dangerous by staying this way. A subtle plan, but it suited him.

"You are clever, but still a fool. You cannot remain like this forever! I can wait longer than you can; you will have to break the programming some day to save your precious future if Megatron continues with his plots. Give in to me, and you feel the glorious fear we can cause together..."

The whisperer still tried to drive him mad, but the whispered lies would not succeed. Perhaps he WOULD be forced to live again, but not now. And Rampage might someday die. That may kill the piece of spark within his own chest, but...that did not matter. He had died once. There was nothing to fear. He might be free if the crab died. Then he would fight Megatron again.

But for now he was content to stay behind the walls of the programming, safe from the whispers. The obedience programs restricted Rampage, too, as long as he held the crab's spark. In the future, the whispers might end. For now, he would keep the crab from being free. Maybe he might live again, honorable and free.

"I will never die, Dinobot!"

Was that a flicker of doubt he felt from Rampage..?

* * *

A clawed hand touched a silvery chest, and Dinobot looked across the control room at the massive form of his half-brother. Rampage didn't say a word, but Megatron could have sworn something passed between them. The crab turned back to his console with a glare and a muttered curse at the Transmetal 2. With his face locked in a snarl, Megatron couldn't tell what the raptor was feeling as Dinobot gazed at the huge crab. 

But, for a moment, it almost looked like he smiled.

* * *

Until death do us part, Rampage. Until then. 


	6. Painting Fools

_If you're done fooling yourself, get on with living._

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Painting Fools  
by **Lady Dementia**

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It's amazing what this planet has gone through. Not that its history is really more impressive than Cybertron's, but Earth's inhabitants are so much shorter-lived than Cybertronians. Where Cybertron's culture changes as slowly as we do, the humans' cultures were rapid-fire, changing in the time it would take for a cold reboot. Still, when Cybertron came into contact with Earth, some of the cultures steadied and thrived for as long as the Autobots'.

That's Earth's legacy to us, the Maximals. Out of date, and most of the time making no sense, but there in the databanks. Humans still celebrate holidays like Christmas and Mothers' Day, and there are records of them in our files. Since the protohumans are the closest to humanity on Earth so far, that really doesn't do much good for us. As soon as we figured out that this world really WAS prehistoric Earth, though, Optimus began digging up information on it. We are an exploration team, after all. Studying cultures we came across was part of our original objectives.

I fail to see why observing holidays would be part of that, however. For one thing, it took extended research to find the old, human calendar that the planet used to go by. As far as I know, only historians ever use it anymore. But by watching the moon and stars, the plant cycles and wildlife, Optimus and I were able to figure out when in the calendar year we were. Thankfully, we missed most of the winter season's holidays; I have no idea how the other Maximals would have reacted if Optimus insisted on observing the gift-giving common to the celebrations. Not to say that Depth Charge and Blackarachnia didn't grumble enough when holidays like Valentine's Day and Easter came along. Only Cheetor and Optimus seemed to really throw themselves into humanity's festivities.

This most recent holiday, though...the spirit of mischief seems to have taken over everyone. A bird's egg, painted for Easter but apparently hoarded until today, was mysteriously cracked open in Silverbolt's quarters. He complained about the smell, but Blackarachnia only smiled and dragged him off. I suspect that plans for revenge are being made, for the first day of April has only just begun. Optimus is positively gleeful. Despite how stern and calm he can seem he is young for his command, and he enjoyed plotting something special today just for the Predacons. A rotted fruit trap disguised under a false energy signal will lure Megatron into investigating. If nothing else, it should keep the Predacons occupied for today trying to wash the stench of spoiled vegetation off of themselves.

Depth Charge has even relaxed enough to pull a prank, something I hadn't expected. Grim and cold as he usually is, he spent last night perfecting his plan with Cheetor and Rattrap, enlisting me to keep Optimus busy with the computers until they could set up the paint bomb ambush in the hall. I heard the results of that only moments ago, and it appears that Primal has declared paint war on the delinquents. I think Blackarachnia must have mixed the first batch of paint for the threesome, but according to the computer screens in front of me, she's sneaking up behind them with Silverbolt...it looks like justice on whoever egged the fuzor's quarters will soon be dealt.

It looks like fun, really. Depth Charge had actually wanted me to join them in pelting Optimus with pressurized paint globes, but I refused. It's not so much that I don't WANT to; I don't have a problem with having fun at all. But the fact that Depth Charge himself asked me reminded me of why I shouldn't.

I know the other Maximals think I'm almost part of the computer systems. I know I don't get outside much. I know it seems like I'm the gentlest, most passive 'bot in the Maximals. However, I also know why. I once smashed Terrorsaur into the ground without even really trying. I once threatened Rattrap and Dinobot so fiercely they both backed off from each other in the middle of a leadership fight. I once attempted to take over the Predacons.

I blend into the background because things happen when I don't. And that scares me.

Gentle? Passive? Ha. I don't have these "Chainguns O' Doom" for decoration, and I don't think any of the Maximals here on Earth with me really know why I have them. I had them long before I joined this exploration team, and it's not because I'm gentle and passive. A brutally accurate picture of who I really am would be a subtler version of Tarantulas with a different faction symbol and without the laughing problem. I had a track record of experiments that would make the Predacon scientist stop chuckling and blanch in horror if he only knew. I was a rising star of scientific advancement through a lack of morals, and the only reason I was a Maximal was that the High Council funded most of my projects. And, yeah, I had fun. I love science, I love technology, and I loved my job.

But that's why Depth Charge's offer of joining in the fun triggered the response to deny it. Depth Charge has the memory of Omicron, but he could put it aside for one day. I have the memory of being responsible for the monster that destroyed Omicron, and I'll never be able to put it aside. I had fun, alright, but the fun of research and experimenting can never measure up to the hundreds of colonists who died.

I swore I'd change after that. No more fun; not at that cost. I work with computers and non-sentient things almost exclusively; technology and biology, computers and plants. They might die, but they don't scream. I was ideal for the exploration team this was supposed to be. My skills would be useful and harmless.

Then came the Beast Wars, and everything changed. It takes a lot not to just tweak a couple of things with the protoforms, or with my fellow Maximals. Old habits die hard, and this is war. What happened when I let go showed what I used to be, but I don't want to be that again. Optimus knows that I was involved somewhat with the Protoform X project because I was there when he was finally forced into a statis pod, but he thinks that final phase was all I was involved in. I'm not going to tell him any more than that, and I'm certainly not going to tell Depth Charge. I have enough guilt already.

* * *

The paint bomb hit the computer screen with a dull "splat," and the green 'bot in front of it raised his arm too late to shield his face from the splattering of bright yellow. "Hey!" 

"Oops!" A multicolored Cheetor skidded to a halt and dodged to one side of the doorway, holding a pressurized paint globe in one hand. "Sorry, Big Green!"

Depth Charge flew through the door at an angle right then, barely missed by a red paint bomb that hit the floor and splotched Rhinox as he turned in his chair. The ray transformed and knelt on the opposite side of the doorway from Cheetor, laughing as he glanced back at the frowning Maximal wiping at the paint spots. "Looks like Blackarachnia got YOU instead of me this time!" It didn't seem to bother him that he had a large splotch of neon orange on his right fin and another one of purple on the side of his leg.

"Comin' through!"

"Eat blue, 'Bird-Dog'!" Cheetor yelled, throwing his paint bomb through the doorway as Rattrap zipped underneath his arm in dragster mode.

The rat braked violently and spun out of control, slamming into the base of the computers and whooping in triumph at the same time, "I got him!"

"YEEEEAAAAAAAH!" both his conspirators shouted victoriously.

"How are you liking hot pink, Primal!" Depth Charge jeered around the doorway.

"Take THIS!" Blackarachnia yelled distantly, and the ray's eyes widened as he stared straight down the hallway.

"Slag," he moaned an instant too late, and a moment later he sputtered as black paint exploded in his face. "She's got a blasted LAUNCHER! How the SLAG did she get that!"

The parts of Cheetor's fur not matted down with paint stood on end. "What're we gonna do?"

Rattrap shook his head mournfully and hefted a paint bomb. "We're gonna die."

"Not necessarily." All three paint warriors looked at the previously quiet Maximal in their midst with surprise. Rhinox smiled back at them, the normally placid expression twisted into something more like a smirk. "Give me the rest of your paint bombs."

They looked at each other, then back at Rhinox. "Why?" Depth Charge asked suspiciously.

The smirk/smile widened. "I want to have some fun."

Optimus, Silverbolt, and Blackarachnia were creeping up the hallway cautiously when Rhinox loomed in the doorway ahead. They had just enough time to see the strange tubes rigged onto his chainguns before he raised them.

"April Fools," he said cheerfully as he started shooting...paint.

* * *

"Where did you learn to do THAT?" Depth Charge manages to ask between chuckles as I spray paint all over the fleeing Maximals in the hall. Cheetor and Rattrap are busy disconnecting empty paint bombs and connecting fresh ones to the tubes leading into my guns while they laugh uncontrollably. 

I smile and don't answer. For once I'm having fun harmlessly, and I don't want to jinx it. My amusements are changing, and for today at least it's easy to find a way to use old knowledge like a fool, not a killer. The memories are still there, of course, but I don't have to dwell on them forever. If Depth Charge can forget for one day, so can I. If it takes tricking each other and pulling pranks, then maybe this human holiday is worth more than I thought.

What no one knows, however, is how very much I am fooling them.


	7. Guilty of Innocence

_They can't see what he's grown up into, but he could show them. He could show them all._

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Guilty of Innocence**

**By Lady Dementia

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**

At some point in my life, I picked up a piece of human history. Not much; just a law that a group of the things used to live by. I don't know, maybe they still do. All I know is that the Maximals abide by a similar kind of law. Short and sweet, it goes like this: innocent until proven guilty.

Yeah, that about describes me.

Oh, I'm not evil, don't get me wrong! I didn't really MEAN to do it, and by the time I realized it...too late. I, the innocent one, was guilty, and their blood are on my hands. But there's nothing I can do about it, so why bother torturing myself with 'maybes' and 'might-have-beens'? There's no proof that I actually did anything, and so I can't be proven guilty. And, really, it's not what I did that made things turn out like this; it's what I DIDN'T.

I didn't fly faster.

I could have. I hadn't hit my maximum speed yet, and I might have arrived in time to do some good...but I didn't, and Tigatron and Airazor are gone. At the time I was worried one of the others might have noticed, maybe timed my flying speed and figured out the truth, that I wasn't actually trying to make it in time. That would be enough proof, perhaps, to change me from innocent to guilty in the eyes of the Maximals.

But I took care of that before any of them could really think about what had happened. It was simple. Everyone always thinks of me as so young, so ignorant, so innocent. Slag, that's part of why I started to dislike Tigatron so much. He ALWAYS treated me like 'Little Cat'. Airazor too, and I was the one who saved her life when she was still in her statis pod! But she passed me over for the tiger, and together they condescended to work with me every once and a while. I hated that, but it was useful. Playing up to that image was the easiest thing I've ever done. The innocent little kid the rest of the Maximals were used to grieved over the abductions of his 'friends' and blamed himself.

_'"If only I could have gotten there faster..."_

_"Don't blame yourself, kid. It wasn't your fault."_

I've gone through a thousand variations of that conversation with every Maximal around. If I could manage it, I'd do it with some of the Predacons, too. Never hurts to have them think of you as an innocent. And I am. I mean, it's not like I hated those two. It was a spontaneous decision made of disgust and annoyance at constantly being the kid of the team. I'm not THAT young! I didn't MEAN for them to be gone forever, or at least I didn't think of it that way. I just...wanted it to stop. And I wanted Airazor to look at me, her savior, the way she looked at Tigatron. It was because of me that she was alive in the first place! And now that she and Tigatron are gone...well, I suppose I regret what I did. But it's more of a relief to know that I'm not quite the ignorant Little Cat everyone else thinks I am. To know that at any time I could tell all of the Maximals that the innocent kid they've been treating me like this entire time is actually no more of a child then they are.

But I don't. Being the kid gets me easy assignments and punishments I can practically ignore. And it's not like I'm really guilty, after all. I'm still innocent in my own way. No one's even started to suspect me of intentionally not coming to Tigatron and Airazor's rescue. If they don't suspect, they don't collect evidence, and without proof...the guilty are innocent.

* * *

Blackarachnia sauntered down the corridor and brushed against the cat looking at the computer screen. "Hey, kitty-cat. What are you doing?" She leaned over him and frowned at the blank screen.

Cheetor shook himself as if waking from a dream and blinked at her. "I, uh, I was just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself, kiddo," she said with a nasty smile.

He blinked again, staring at her with a longing look. "No, not ME," he demurred absently, and she frowned.

"What do you mean, not you? Who were you thinking of hurting?" she demanded.

His eyes widened in what looked like alarm. "I, ah...I mean, I was thinking..." She watched him closely, and he looked down as if ashamed. "I was thinking about Tigatron and Airazor," he admitted in a small voice, and Blackarachnia sighed in disgust.

"Stop beating yourself up over that!" She threw her pincers up and shook her head. "It's over and done with, and you should just get on with life!"

"My lady is correct," a voice said, and both of the 'bots turned to see Silverbolt coming down the corridor. "You should stop blaming yourself for something you couldn't have prevented," the fuzor finished gravely.

Cheetor gave a tiny, miserable nod. "But if I had just--"

"Stop it!" Blackarachnia ordered. "It wasn't your fault. End of story." She looked up at Silverbolt and smiled. "Now, how about we take a walk, Bowser?" The fuzor nodded, and they started to walk off. "Stop thinking, kiddo," the spider threw back over her shoulder.

Neither of them noticed the burning look Cheetor watched them with, or the fists clenched underneath the console. If they had, they might not have thought him as young as they considered him to be.

* * *

It's not like I'm evil. I'm not a killer, or a Predacon, or anything like that. I just didn't do all that I could have. Does that make me so bad?

I'm innocent until proven guilty, after all.


	8. I, Alone, Can Explain

_On being alone…and destroying the universe._

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**I, Alone, Can Explain**

**by Lady Dementia**

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_Dear Cybertron:_

I am alone.

Do you know what being alone is? Really? Ha! You don't have a CLUE what it's like to be alone! Try this: stand by yourself in a place where other people have been recently but won't come back to. Stay there for days, by yourself. You can bring something to read or work on, even. Eventually, you'll start to get restless. The most solitary spark wants to have some company sometimes, even if it's your worst enemy and you're standing in silence. Being in a place that you know others had been in only makes it more intense. They've been there, but they're not there any longer. There's evidence of their presence, you know intellectually that they've been there, but nothing you can do will bring them back. You're by yourself; no one to talk to, no one to look at, no one at all. Everyone you know is gone. Got that feeling?

I'm more alone than that.

You can always leave that place. Someone will be around, or you know where you can find someone. Even while you're standing by yourself, you know that there are other people somewhere. Your friends, your enemies, people you've never met. It doesn't matter—you still know they're there. You could pretend to be the last Cybertronian, and you'd still know, somewhere in the back of your mind, that you're not.

I will be.

It's my mission to destroy the universe as I know it, and in doing so…I'll be one of four 'bots left over. And the other three will have me killed as soon as I complete my mission. How do I know? They told me. Do I have a choice in this mission? No. I disobey, I die anyway. They'll kill me if I succeed or if I don't, but the programming they forced on me insures that disobedience will be far more painful than success. I was brought online for the entire purpose of destroying everything I know, including myself. You want to know what it's like to be alone? I can't tell anyone what I'm really doing here on Earth, or they're stop me. I can't befriend anyone because they'll only disappear, betrayed, when I complete my mission; that would only make it worse. I can't LOVE anyone because it would be like killing myself twice over.

I actually made that mistake, or at least I almost did. I thought that if I made someone to be a friend, they'd last. I know; it's a foolish idea. Without the known universe, nothing that comes from a Maximal pod would survive. It was just that…well, I don't suppose that you'd understand. You don't know what it's like to be so alone. When you're like me, a certain amount of desperation is to be expected, I guess. If Blackarachnia hadn't been such a typical, backstabbing Predacon, I might have followed through with that desperate attempt to make a friend, but her behavior just reminded me to keep my distance.

She asked me once, before I pushed her away, why I always chuckle at everything, why I always plot against everyone. I distracted her with something else and changed the subject, but my answer is that I have nothing to lose. I plot to get the most out of life. It's not like I have anything personally to gain. Anything I'd win I'd lose in the end, anyway. It's just a game, a frantic attempt to find out what life really is. As for my chuckling, well, it's called graveyard humor. I find a grim amusement in a lot of things. Having Megatron breathing down my neck over an unsuccessful (or successful) plot me makes me laugh because…what's he going to do? Kill me? That's the worst he could do, but everyone's got to die sometime.

I've found that almost everyone has an obsession with death. Even Cheetor, with the youthful conviction of immortality, has glimpsed a worrying look at it when Dinobot died. For everyone else, death comes at any time. For them, there's no set time. They could live a couple millennia or die tomorrow in a freak accident with the weather. You could suffer a malfunction of a vital system and die before you even knew it. No last moment to even think that it's not fair. Just…dead. You could live a long, healthy life, but at the edge of your awareness there's the knowledge that no one's conquered mortality. You won't last to see how things turn out. And the part that worries everyone: you don't know WHEN it'll happen.

I do. I'm going to destroy you all. I have that power, knowing when you'll die. Or rather, you won't die; you'll simply cease to exist. You'll never have come online, you'll never have BEEN. You think Rampage is a mass murderer? Think about how many people are going to never be when I complete my mission. You neighbors, your friends, your enemies; all GONE. I hold your lives in my hands, and if it wasn't for this mission, I would let you go.

My mission, quite simply, is to destroy the Ark. When the Ark is destroyed, the chain of events that followed the Autobot and Decepticon reawakening will never happen. I really don't know what the plan is, but the Tripedicus Council is apparently confident in it. After all, they're going to be destroying everything I know in order to start the action. How will I survive? I don't know. When they brought me online, they told me that I had a different origin than everyone else on Cybertron in the current times. What that means, I neither know nor care. It doesn't matter. I blow up the Ark, the Autobots and Decepticons on board die, the Maximals and Predacons cease to exist, the future you live in and I come from is changed forever. The Tripedicus Council tracks me down and kills me, or maybe there's a failsafe in the override programming in my head. Maybe the painful death disobedience would bring me will be my fate, anyway. In that case, I probably should just kill myself, or something.

But I won't. The closest I've come to that is continually failing in my plots against Megatron. I guess that's my own stubborn nature coming through. I may destroy all of you, but it will buy me a few more moments of life. I want life even as I laugh at death.

And then there is the Tripedicus Council. Those three robots gave me my orders, forced programming on me, and told me that they were going to kill me. Yet of everyone I've met, those three will be the only ones I know alive once I complete this mission. You can't understand because you can't possibly understand how alone I am. My entire universe will disappear, and ALL that will be left is those three 'bots! How they treated me, like a tool meant to be used and thrown away, was degrading, but…I've known all of my brief life that they were the only ones that would accept me. I am undeniably different than everyone else except those three, and I am so, so alone. If they would just let me live, I would be happy as even a drone. A servant. A slave. They could treat me however they wanted as long as they let me live! With just three 'bots, I would no longer be alone. I could take any sort of treatment if I wasn't alone, anymore.

That's the part that keeps me from suicide. That's why I'm going to complete this mission. It's more than the failsafe programs in my head. It's more than avoidance of a painful death or graveyard humor at your expense. It's more than helplessness. It's hope. Desperate, sick hope that I curse even as I wish for it. You see, one of the Tripedicus Council's members mentioned that he MIGHT find a use for me after the mission, if I complete it to his satisfaction. So I hope that I'll have a place after the destruction. I hate the fact that I'm so desperate, but the loneliness drives me. I'll do anything to know that the person I'm talking to, taking orders from, whatever…that they won't disappear.

Perhaps that knowledge is what my loneliness is. Everything you know, live, and experience will disappear, and you'll be left by yourself. You can't understand it because you can't make yourself feel it. I haven't had a choice. It's all I know. I don't expect you to understand. You can't know what it's like to be alone like this. It's even a kind of mercy, if you think about it. You won't have to worry about the Pit or the Matrix; without existing, you can't possibly go on to the afterlife. Not like me.

To be honest, the afterlife scares me. Nobody really knows what it's like, and if you've ever listened to the various splinter religions of Primus…well, everyone but that particular group you're listening to is going to the Pit. How am I supposed to know which one is the right one? It's important to me. I want to know. Unfortunately, no one knows for sure what it's like after you're dead. Apparently there have been some Autobots and Decepticons that died and came back, but they didn't talk about it much that I know of.

I'm probably going to the Pit no matter what I do, anyway. I can't think of any way it could possibly be worse than living, though.

That's how alone I am.

I thought I should explain. You'll never read this; you'll never exist to read this. I thought I should explain despite that. I just want to think that somehow, someone knows why I'm like this, why I'm going to do this…and understands. All I've ever wanted was to not be alone. I hope that by destroying you I won't be any longer, or at least death will take the loneliness away.

But I'm sorry.

_Sincerely, _

_Tarantulas _

_

* * *

_

* * *

**_Author's Note:_**_ I like word-play. Grammatically, the title is a sentence that can be read "I am alone, and I can explain," or "I am the only one who can explain."_ _Either way, the Tarantulas writing this letter could say it._


	9. In An Instant

_Would his death suceed where his life had failed?_

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**In An Instant**

**by Lady Dementia**

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**

There's enough time for a lifetime in an instant. It feels like everything is in slow motion while I'm in fast forward, and you know what? I really AM seeing my life pass before my optics. What scares me is that it looks like a rip-off of Starscream's career…

I mean, after that old ghost possessed Waspinator and betrayed everyone enough times to confuse even Tarantulas, we all tried to research him. We didn't have too much luck. Keep in mind that our ship is a war ship; its doesn't waste a lot of memory on mere historical records. There were a couple mentions of his name in the Air Strikes: Strategic Defense section, but most of what we knew was pulled from our own heads. He's one of those guys from WAY before our time—notorious enough that he's remembered, but we're not exactly clear on what we're remembering him FOR. The name's familiar; the actions are not. That's how he managed to fool us all…except for Blackarachnia. She has a better grasp of history than she let on, and I thought Megatron was going to blow a fuse over the whole incident.

He didn't, though, and I got laughed at instead. Yeah, our voices were pretty similar, and Megatron really thought it was hilarious that Starscream was a traitor, not a loyal warrior like he'd claimed. Well, after he cooled down a little over the whole betrayal bit, that is. I'll admit that the connection between us hadn't slipped my mind, but I hadn't thought it was THAT funny. Everyone poked fun at me for a few days, and then we went on with the Beast Wars. If things had stayed like that, it wouldn't have been so bad.

But one day Scorpinok presented Megatron with some little device, and he came up with a plan to steal the Axalon's computer files with it. Like most of Megatron's plans, however, it didn't work. Most of us ended up in the CR Tanks, and all we had to show for it was a stupid bunch of historical files the device had gotten out before the Maximals destroyed it. There was a war going on—who needed those things?

Megatron looked through them just in case…and then I never heard the end of it. Turns out that the Maximals have a much more complete historical database in their computer than we do. I had the feeling Megatron had found something of particular interest and was picking on the Starscream thing to keep us distracted, but at that point I was so harassed by the other Predacons I wasn't able to read through many of the files before he encrypted them. There were a few things about the original Megatron that had looked intriguing…

While the files had still be available, though, I had only been looking through the parts about Starscream. Oof. Not a very flattering 'bot to be compared to. The most frequently mentioned thing in those files was how he kept trying to take over from Megatron and failing miserably.

Go ahead. Laugh. You might as well; I'm kind of used to it by now. Besides, Tarantulas was much better at it than you. He used to make me so mad…so, yeah, I got laughed at a lot by the others. I mean, I got so used to it that if someone yelled, "Starscream!" I'd turn around and yell, "What!" Everyone thought that was funny, but I hated it. And I couldn't STOP reacting to it, which is why it was so hilarious for everyone else.

They thought I hated it because Starscream acted like an idiot when he possessed Waspinator, but I've looked at the history. The guy was actually a decent Air Commander, even if he did try and backstab anyone and anything. Slag, that's how the Predacons act today if you want to think about it. There's really nothing wrong with that. But I've let the others think that I hate being compared to him.

It's easier than trying to explain that I just hate being compared to a Decepticon.

Look, I've talked to a few other Predacons while I was still back on Cybertron—I KNOW my view on this is a little strange. But the Decepticons FAILED to win the war against the Autobots. They FAILED to build an empire. The whole entire reason I joined up with Megatron is because he seemed to have a chance of separating the Predacons from the Decepticons. Ever since we lost the Great War against the Maximals, we've had the Decepticon comparison looming over us. The Maximals kept on saying how history repeated itself, and it looked like they were right. I couldn't accept that. I still can't. I have a loyalty to my faction that made me throw in my chances with the 'bot who seemed the most likely to break the cycle of failure. I thought his name was a strange coincidence. Megatron was planning on finding enough energon to fuel a Predacon conquest, and even though his plan was risky and wild—stealing one of Cybertron's most heavily guarded relics? That's a do-or-die mission!—once we actually escaped intact with the Golden Disks…we were going to succeed where the Decepticons had failed.

Or, at least, we WERE. But then this pesky exploration ship full of annoyingly persistant Maximals started pursuing us, and it all went downhill from there.

Don't be fooled by what I said about following Megatron, though. I joined him because he had the personal magnetism to make me believe he could pull off what he was saying. Our theft of the Golden Disks seemed to confirm that this was the leader the Predacons needed. But as soon as the Axalon took those final shots at us, I realized, like Starscream, that my leader was an idiot. And as soon as I began thinking it over, the thought of ME leading the Predacons to victory became a lure I couldn't resist. Unfortunately, I have the same bad luck as the ancient jet when it comes to disposing of Megatron.

Now I can only hope that Megatron can salvage the Predacon's future from the hated cycle of history. Our faction deserves better than the Decepticons' fate. They failed, but although I hate being compared to Starscream I can see how I, too, am a failure even though I'm not a Decepticon. In trying so hard to bring the Predacons to power, I ended up sabotaging our cause from within. It's a weakness I wish I had seen earlier. It's too late to do anything about it now, and I wonder if I also will become one of those names remembered yet forgotten, with nothing distinguishing me from any Decepticon compared to me.

Or, worse yet: have I been compared to a Decepticon…and found lacking?

* * *

It was too sudden to brace for impact. The energy wave smashed into the world below, and on the surface a Predacon ship rocked with the impact. Sensors went crazy, and two 'bots within were knocked against each other. Their hoverpads tilted, and they tumbled off. Scorpinok screamed as he fell, knowing that he was about to die. He wasn't a flyer! 

Strangely enough, although Terrorsaur was too disoriented to fly to safety, he wasn't panicking. His screech had been short and full of surprise when Scorpinok's hoverpad had hit his, but now he plummeted towards the lava…and his expression, if anyone had been able to see it, was almost thoughtful.

Almost sad.

* * *

There's enough time to regret a lifetime in an instant, but even as I realize that, I realize there's one thing in my life that can never live up to comparison when it comes to Starscream. My life passes before my optics…and then I see my death. I, unlike that old Decepticon, do not have an immortal spark. 

And an instant doesn't last forever.

Good luck, Megatron.

* * *


	10. Isometric

_**Isometric **(adj.): "of, pertaining to, or having equality of measure" and "Drafting designating a method of projection (isomet'ric projec'tion) in which a three-dimensional object is represented by a drawing (i'somet'ric-draw'ing) having the horizontal edges of the object drawn usually at a 30° angle and all verticals projected perpendicularly from a horizontal base, all lines being drawn to scale."  
_

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Isometric**

**By Lady Dementia**

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**

His speech patterns annoyed the other Predacons. The buzzing lisp was something new, a quirk from his beast mode like Megatron's living hand and Scorpinok's pincher-chattering, but its new grating only added to the older problems. The way he spoke irritated Tarantulas to ranting and Megatron into sending him to whatever end of the ship was farthest away. The stilted grammar was bad enough, but the refusal to use pronouns aggravated the Predacons way out of proportion to the problem.

If they had been inclined to talk about it, the original five Predacons who had stolen the Golden Disk with him would have found that they all shared that annoyance. Hearing him repeat his own name every time he spoke was mildly irritating, but the part that made it more than a glitch in their minds was the way he mangled their names. Everyone became 'This-bot' or 'That-bot,' and it made them want to strangle him until he used their proper names!

True, he picked a major identifying trait for each of them; nobody was ever confused about who he was talking about, especially since he never, ever used pronouns. But Cybertronians took their names seriously, choosing descriptions that presented their character how they desired. Only friends could change that chosen name into a nickname. He was not a friend. A fellow thief, a criminal with a speech glitch, gained no sympathy and earned their irritation.

Perhaps it was just a glitch. He never said. Except for a few sharp words here and a sarcastic comment there, nobody on the original team ever asked, even if he would have answered. The Golden Disk was stolen, and after that, the minor annoyance with a speech problem was the last thing on everyone's minds.

The truth was that Megatron had hired a team of specialists all slightly out of place. That worked well enough just stealing the Golden Disk, but in the harried escape and subsequent Beast Wars, the weird slants came out in them. Terrorsaur could have been a hotshot pilot…if he'd been a single-fighter ship pilot. Tarantulas could have been a scientific genius…if the Maximals had never imposed their 'Moral Standards' rules on the rest of Cybertron. Scorpinok could have been a useful inventor…on a quiet colony world where he wouldn't be under pressure. Dinobot could have been a great warrior…in the structured fights of the challenge arena.

And him? He'd been hired to be a breaker, the specialist who carried their sensors past the High Council's first layer of guards to see the traps laying in wait, and he'd done the job perfectly. It was actually kind of strange how Megatron had hired him on a recommendation, then attributed everything he'd done right ever since to sheer luck. The others probably hadn't known about the recommendation, but they made their disgust with his bumbling ineptitude during the Beast Wars plain. Somehow it completely slipped their minds that he hadn't been hired for a war.

He was a specialist, hired to do one thing only before becoming backup in the rest of the heist. After that, it was supposed to be up to the others to get them out of there to Earth, where Tarantulas and Scorpinok would get a shipload of energon, and if Megatron wanted to buy his services for a war on the galaxy, he'd have the trip back to Cybertron to negotiate another contract. Otherwise, as soon as they reached the metal planet again, he had every intention of leaving the crew. He hadn't been made for war. He hadn't been designed to fight much at all, and definitely not in unknown territory.

The other Predacons had their little glitches, obvious but attributed to their specialties. He, they saw as programmed wrong. They never seemed to figure out that he'd been programmed RIGHT.

He was a specialist, a professional, and no professional in any field would have gotten far with a speech problem like his unless it was somehow part of it. And it was. His programming was written precisely, if a little erratically, because his specialty fell in the High Council's prohibited range for Predacons. Breakers were strictly illegal, which made him a criminal by programming. Tarantulas, if anyone, should have recognized that; the speech patterns were recognizable and labeled his specialty to those who knew what to listen for.

Maybe if planetfall on Earth hadn't made him such a clutz, the spider might have connected his speech impediment with a career instead of stupidity, but the Beast Wars weren't supposed to happen. Megatron contracted him for a quick in and out for the Golden Disk, then a brief retrieval trip where all he'd have to do was move equipment around while the others loaded up on energon.

That was how it was supposed to happen; instead, the Maximals grounded them.

Suddenly, he was trapped on a world he didn't know, with unknown contours and textures, movements and echoes. Suddenly, he was a specialist drowning in a world he wasn't trained for, and he couldn't handle it. He hadn't been BUILT for this. Transformer adaptation could only help him so far, and he was still left reeling. The other Predacons adjusted as they could and slotted into place in the fighting, but there he was with his annoying speech patterns and crippled abilities.

If he hadn't seemed so senseless afterward, perhaps one of the others might have done something to help, but Predacons didn't do things like that. Besides, what could they have done? Down to his basic programming, he wasn't meant to be here doing this, there wasn't a thing they could change about that. They chalked his previous success up to luck and decided that he had been like this all along. He'd sounded like it, anyway.

A few words from Megatron would have clued Tarantulas in to what was wrong, but Megatron held everything close. All the information about personnel and the heist he kept locked in secure files; what the Predacons found out about each other came by observation and conversation, not background checks. But all Tarantulas would have needed to know was what exactly the glitching twit was hired for, and things would have started clicking into place.

Of course he spoke like that. Breakers structured half their world through sensors, and sound bridged the two different planes of their sight. While everyone else's vision came from their optics, breakers saw sound, tasted radio, and heard color. Their optics fed them one level, and projected over it like a 3D skeleton was the other half of information their sensors received. Sound filled the skeleton into a richly textured world. Getting past the High Council's guards would have been simple to someone who could see the waiting traps like that.

He never called anyone by a pronoun because it didn't fill in the picture. He had to know exactly who he spoke of. It annoyed the other Predacons that he never used their chosen names, but those names only described what they wanted others to know about them. He needed to see them as they really looked, not how they wanted to be seen. And around 'bots who talked as much and as ornately as Megatron and Dinobot, his own language reduced to what a sensor-blind 'bot would describe as 'childish.' A better word would be 'simple.' He didn't need the extra noise. Too much noise, and he'd become scrambled, the filler sounds blotting out the rest of the data his sensors fed him.

That's why the most effective traps for breakers were flash-bangs. Harmless explosions of light and violently strobing sound could send any breaker's sensitive circuit arrays staggering, feeding him nonsense that scrambled his mind. He'd successfully avoided the High Council's tricks and guided the other Predacons past them to grab the Golden Disk--only to end up living on the biggest flash-bang of them all.

Cybertron was a planet of clean metal planes and electronic mesh. Sound bounced precisely. Equipment channels went here and looked just so, and for someone who'd been programmed in it, lived among it, and worked on it his entire life, the planet was KNOWN.

Earth was chaos.

Finely tuned instruments spazzed. Sensors went haywire. What his optics saw rarely made sense as the full range of his vision projected a structure on top of it that rippled and shifted with unpredictable spurts of information. Sound assaulted him on every side, sounds he couldn't gauge or identify, and his head spun with the white noise spiking his senses--and he couldn't turn it OFF. He was sensualist thrown into an orgy; he was a specialist in a world destroying him through his specialty.

He found himself attracted to temporary highs, allowing his beast mode control, anything to distract him from the mess of textures and echoes that he couldn't get used to. His mind twisted in the midst of out of control surroundings. He couldn't focus, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything but follow Megatron in the hopeless hope that the Predacon tyrant would eventually return him to the planet he was meant for.

Yes, if Tarantulas had known, he'd have understood. And, maybe, he might have felt pity for the breaker. Stuck in a place he couldn't break out of, beaten out of his mind with information he didn't know…pitiful.

Or--perhaps more likely--the spider would have chuckled heartlessly at his plight. War was not the place for sympathy. Predacons helped themselves, because no one else would.

So he did.

* * *

Light spilled over the eastern horizon, right on time. His filters kicked in, the new programming he'd labored on identifying the rustling noise as footsteps on rotting wood. Next, the drums. It had taken him weeks to impress on the primitives that none of the main group were to leave the caves until the drums sounded, but now they exited with a rushing wave of yawns and creaking joints. Yelps etched out the littlest animals, grunts the oldest, and he found the rest by memory. 

No electronic signatures, no metal, nothing he'd known on Cybertron but the two flattened heads displayed to his left, but also no Maximals, no orders, and no war. And without those distractions, without anything he had known, there was nothing left but this total emersion into Earth. Slowly, ever so slowly, he regained control. Each of his sensors, made for Cybertron, would receive a custom-made filter that allowed him to 'see' Earth. He had many sensors, and a single filter took time to put into place, program, and debug, but he had nothing but time here.

He had imposed order on the primitive humans, giving him that time. He ruled here. At this moment, in the dawn while the primitives were still quiet and the drums pounded rhythmically, enough of the chaos had receded to allow him to see the clearing, the caves, and most of the fleshies he ruled. As they moved more unpredictably, losing the order he'd made, he'd lose his concentration and fall back into relying only on his optics, his other senses fuzzing with the overabundance of data once more.

The filters, eventually, would strain out the information he didn't need. He'd been a specialist once, he'd be so again. Eventually, he'd rebuild his sensor arrays until he could see, hear, and taste a vision of this world with perfect clarity.

In the meantime, his senses fell out of balance, retreating up the slope in a confusion of noise and color until even his new filters cut out. Holding out against familiar clamor, he reached for a starting point.

"Wazzpinator," he whispered into the sunrise, and for the briefest second, he saw himself complete in every spectrum.

Then he sat back in his throne and let the rush come.

* * *

_**

* * *

Author's Note:** This is the only new fic in the series. I decided "Slice of Life" didn't fit and wrote this instead. For the moment, I like it._


	11. Just A Thought

_An outsider looks at a majority opinion, and those giving it._

**

* * *

Just A Thought **

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

It was just a thought. 

Something he thought about when there was nothing else to do.

Just a thought.

All his life he had been told that he was insane, out of control; a crazed, blood-thirsty robot. The lives he extinguished screamed "INSANE!" at him as they died. The news reports covering his actions always included a psychoanalysis on him that condemned him as mentally unstable to an extreme never seen before. Those hunting him were warned that he was crazy. Even now, the Predacons trapped on this planet with him watched him warily; whispers of "insane" following him no matter what he did.

So he had accepted it.

What else could he do? He knew something was different about himself. No one else felt the same urges to destroy and kill that he did. He was odd, insane, crazy. HE was WRONG.

Or was he?

He watched the actions of those he was forced to live with, and it occurred to him for the first time that maybe, just maybe, they were incorrect. It was nothing more than a feeling at first, but it grew as he watched them try to destroy and protect time itself. He saw them fall in love; betray each other; make doomed friendships. The way they lived. The things on this planet were all things he had never seen before in his chaotic life, but now he was forced to let the creatures around him live, and he watched LIFE.

...and suddenly it was a fully formed thought.

Maybe HE wasn't the one who was insane.

It was just a thought.

Just something to think about when there was nothing else to do.

But it was something that he had never thought of before.

Just a thought, though.

A little, tiny, niggling doubt.

* * *

Rampage gasped as his spark flared with pain. 

So, it seemed that the purple saurian wanted him to do some inane thing for the Predacons again. As he walked towards the Predacon base's command center, he wearily wondered what it was going to be this time. A plot to remake the time stream? An ambush to destroy the Maximals? Whatever it was, he obviously needed Rampage's brute strength to do it, since he couldn't be trusted to use his unstable mind in any way. Everyone knew that the insane couldn't be trusted to think.

Everyone...except for someone who was starting to doubt.

...just a thought...

* * *


	12. Remember Me

_How you act depends on who's watching._

**

* * *

**

**Remember Me**

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

Today Rattrap told me to loosen up. Cheetor said the same thing yesterday. Optimus, the day before. By 'loosen up' they mean act more like they do, though, and I can't do that. 

Oh, I suppose that I could actually act like that. I could laugh along with Rattrap's bawdy jokes and stop saluting Optimus if it would help, but would it benefit me at all? No. In fact, if I acted any differently I would fade into the shadows cast by them. They don't even realize that those shadows are there, but I do. I realized it when I met Megatron for the first time. I was in the presence of a Character, and compared to him I was just a background figure. In history, when this war is finished one way or another, that's exactly how I would be portrayed…if I 'loosened up.'

I wonder if the others see it, or if they care. Even today, nobody talks much about the people who fade into the background. Airazor and Tigatron are hardly spoken of anymore; they were barely paid more attention when they were still alive. They faded into the background, behind Optimus Primal's leadership and Megatron's plots. Rhinox? He might be mentioned in history with perhaps a reference to a computer genius. Nothing more, really. Scorpinok, the dead second-in-command of the Predacons, is a vague scientist figure. I think he was loyal to Megatron, but I don't really know. If he's this unheard of now, what will it be like when we return to Cybertron?

History doesn't remember the typical soldier. It remembers the bumbling Waspinator, scheming Tarantulas, childish Cheetor. It remembers the insane Rampage, obsessed Depth Charge, and Inferno, with his faulty programming. It doesn't remember Rhinox, Airazor, Tigatron, or Scorpinok. It remembers Quickstrike's strange speech patterns and Dinobot the Martyr. Will history remember the Transmetal 2 version of Dinobot? Perhaps his identity as a clone will make him more than a drone in the eyes of the future.

My point is that only those who stand out will be remembered. If the Predacons win this war, they will remember Rattrap's wisecracks. If the Maximals win, we will remember how Terrorsaur back-stabbed Megatron at every turn. History is written by the victors, and those who fade into the background will be forgotten, even by their allies. If I 'loosen up,' giving up my nobility, my naiveté, I'll become a nobody. Forgotten tomorrow because I'm hardly noticed today.

Is it such a bad thing to want to be remembered? I want to be in Cybertron's history. I want to be unique in some way; a strange way, maybe, but different than the typical soldier. And is this character I play such a terrible thing? Just because I may not quite be how I act, does it make how I act somehow less than before? Who knows; the others here on this planet with me may all be the same, deep down in themselves. Megatron may just act a tyrant; Cheetor, irresponsible; Dinobot, a drone; Inferno, a loyalist. I could be the only one who admits that it really is an act to myself.

Ah, but what does it matter? It makes you happy to see me as the noble warrior. All of you, Maximal or Predacon. I am your foil, your comparison, both for good and evil. If that's what you want to see, then I will be the fast and noble Maximal for you.

Especially for you. I'll let you think that you have me trapped in this character, that you'll know what I like and dislike, how I'll react, what I'll say. I'm content in that role, and not only because I love you. I'm not saying that I don't—why else would I be here?—but it's more than that.

You remembered me. I stuck out enough, treated you differently enough, that you remembered me. Your memory is a kind of history, a specific kind of history, but in its own way that's special to me. You have no idea how much it matters to me how you see me. If you looked at me and decided I wasn't different enough, or I was too different…then I would have to choose. Is the history written by the winners a prize I'm willing to give up for your notice? I think that when we first met, I was playing the character in love, because romance is the stuff of myths and legends. Now, though…now…

* * *

Blackarachnia stirred, something breaking through her dreams. Someone was watching her… 

Her optics lit up, her body already coiling defensively, but in the dim light of her quarters she only saw the silhouette of her watcher. It was enough, though, and she relaxed as quickly as she had tensed. There was a gleam of white teeth when her observer saw that she was awake, and a hand brushed along the side of her face tenderly as he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at her.

She smiled back slyly, out of habit. "Like what you see?"

"Always," he replied promptly. "My lady, I could look at you forever and never grow tired of what I saw."

That provoked a laugh from her. "Don't ever change, Bowser," she chuckled. "I could listen to you flatter me for just as long!" Still snickering to herself, Blackarachnia settled back and dimmed her optics again, leaving Silverbolt to watch over her in the darkness. Just another night, the nights that never make it into history.

But he was smiling.

* * *

Ah, beloved, as long as you're happy, I don't care who else knows I'm here. You are my world, even beyond the character I've made myself to be. There's no need to 'loosen up,' but even if my memory is forgotten by the rest when the Beast Wars are over. 

But, Blackarachnia…remember me.

* * *


	13. Someday

_And then, one day, he ran out of miracles…_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Assume that Beast Machines never happened.

* * *

**Someday**

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

There's never enough time for what we want to do in life, and I know this. However, unlike most Cybertronians, I also know that there will always be enough time AFTER life. I've died; I should know. It's funny how my memory blurs now, when I need those memories the most, but I remember enough to know what death is like. 

A brief pain, the last gasp of a spark struggling to stay in the frail shell of a body, and then…forever. What could I tell you of death? It is everything that has been, everything that is, and everything that will be. There is no time, yet it is nothing BUT time. I may not remember it now, but I saw the first rebellion, how Autobots and Decepticons fought together against the enslavers, the Quintessons. I saw Unicron destroyed, the Golden Disks stolen by Megatron, the Autobots befriending humans for the first time. I saw Starscream reborn, Dinobot reincarnated in a different body, the Nemisis rising from the ocean, Galvatron's insanity. I saw it all; past, future, present. I wasn't just watching it, though. I was THERE.

That is what death is. I don't fear it. Oh, I don't SEEK it! I grieve for those left behind, try and keep them alive, and I lived my life trying to find the time to do what I wanted to do. I just don't feel fear for death. I feel regret, yes—there was a lot that I still wanted to do before I was ready to die. Then again, is anyone ever really ready to die?

I wish I could explain that to my friends, my comrades. I wish they could understand. But every time I reach for those memories to use them, to speak of them…they slip away into my mind until I'm not certain they're real at all. Perhaps Optimus Prime had the same problem, when he returned from death. I've certainly never found any mention of him speaking about the after life. It fills me with sorrow to see my fellow Maximals so terrified of death, though, and I wish that I could reassure them somehow. It's just another way of looking at things, that's all. Removed from involvement, but there.

But…this time…I hope I'll be able to say goodbye. I don't want them to grieve, thinking that I was alone and afraid. Life isn't forever; we have all of death to be together.

* * *

The robot lay on his back, staring up at the sky with flickering optics. Smoke trails from missiles and flyers criss-crossed above him, and they caught the light with brutal beauty. This was the last major battle of the renewed Predacon/Maximals war, or so the Maximal High Council had told him when they'd asked him to lead the charge. The level of combat experience he had was unusual among the Maximals, and they had wanted to exploit that. He could have refused, but it was his duty to help his faction in any way he could. 

Besides, he still felt guilty. Perhaps the return of the Maximals from ancient Earth with their Predacon prisoner Megatron hadn't REALLY triggered the war, but it had certainly contributed to the beginnings of it.

Now he could see an indistinct form walking among the scattered bodies laying around him on the ground. Searching for survivors, but to execute or help? The 'bot walked closer, though, and he relaxed as he recognized the bulky figure. He cleared his throat, about to call out to him, but all that resulted was a liquid rattle. Mech fluid must have leaked into his throat.

Rhinox glanced in his direction at the sound, however. "Oh, no…"

He tried to say something again, tried to smile as Rhinox sprinted to his side and knelt down, but the he remembered that his battlemask was still in place. It retracted reluctantly, something snapping inside him that told him the mask wasn't going to be sliding back into place anytime soon. His old friend's hands were running over his body, causing pain even though Rhinox was obviously trying to be careful. The worried, frightened look on the rhino's face deepened.

"Oh, NO…"

He sighed and let his head drop back to rest completely on the ground, too weak to even try to support it anymore. "Pretty…" he said softly, wistfully, in a voice with a hint of a liquid gurgle as he stared up at the sky again. Those hands were frantic, but he knew their efforts were futile. Why was his old friend so horrified? "Did we win?"

Rhinox looked down at him with grief etching his face into a mask. "Yes. Yes, we won. When you get back, the High Council will hail you as a hero—"

He chuckled tiredly, even though it hurt somewhere deep within him to do it. "You know I won't be going back," he gurgled bluntly, and Rhinox flinched. What could he tell him to stop that fear in his friend's optics? "This is goodbye, old friend…"

The 'bot kneeling beside him shivered, words of denial choking themselves in his mouth until none of them could get out. The gentle, expectant, tired look of sorrow on the injured Maximal's face made Rhinox want to scream at him to fight, even though he knew by the flickering of light inside the robot's injury that the spark casing was breeched. There wasn't a chance of him surviving. There were no more miracles for this 'bot.

Flickering optics turned back to the sky. "Tell the others…" Flick flick. Flick. "…I'll be seeing them…" Flick. "…someday…"

Flick.

He had been listening to the words so closely that it took him a moment to realize those optics wouldn't be flickering again. They remained dark; empty glass eyes pointed at the sky, no longer seeing the light reflecting along the smoke trails.

Rhinox bowed his head, grieving for his friend.

* * *

Later, much later, after the Predacons and Maximals had come to a truce and there was time for such things, they erected a monument for him. It was actually a memorial for all of the war's victims, but on its side anyone could read this, written by the survivors from ancient Earth: 

_"In memory of the great Maximal Hero Optimus Primal, friend and commander. May his life be remembered forever, and may we see him again…someday." _

It's still there today.

* * *


	14. Spiral

_"I don't think you trust in my self-righteous suicide/_

_I cry when angels deserve to die." _

_--Chop Suey, System of a Down_

* * *

**Spiral**

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

Hatred is unconditional. 

I have no pity, no sympathy, and no mercy for Rampage. There is only hatred. He's a monster that tore the lives of countless people to pieces, then stomped on the pieces and laughed as he did it. He's a macabre imitation of a Cybertronian; a shell with an oozing hole where anything remotely resembling emotions should be. Rampage isn't a person. He's a thing. A monster. An element of pure evil that should have been destroyed. He has nothing but hatred for anyone, anything. He's killed and defiled everything he's touched since he's gotten free.

Except for me.

Why? Am I so special, so lucky that I alone survived? No. I'm not really sure WHY he spared my life back on Omicron, but I know why I keep following him. I know why I'll kill him. Oh, I know. I have only hatred, and I will kill him because of it. Why do I have the hatred, though?

You see, one day I had courier duty. It's as simple as that. After Omicron was destroyed, people tried to make Guardian duty seem glamorous, the fighters standing between the colonies and destruction. In truth, it was the most boring thing I've ever done. I wasn't the Security Chief. I didn't get to escort important people around on inspections of the colony. I had signed up because 'bots who served terms of duty as Guardians got a chance to buy good property at cheap prices. I was going to serve my time as a Guardian, then start a business. For Primus' sake, I was going to be a colonist!

And so I got courier duty. Somebody needed to tell people where to go, how to strap in, what was expected of them when they got on board the shuttle going to Starbase Rugby and back, and I got stuck with the duty. This shuttle flight had enough people that I actually had someone sitting next to me in the front seats. I didn't get to fly the shuttle, of course. I was a Guardian, not a pilot. I was, however, bored enough that I was willing to talk with this person sitting next to me.

Turned out that he was going to Omicron for much the same reason I had gone. There was a science institute in the center of the colony, and it had put out a call for volunteers for experiments. Nobody showed up. I mean, who wants to volunteer to be experimented on? Even if it's harmless stuff, people have better things to do with their time. So the institute had added the same incentive for volunteering the Guardians had: cheap property prices. Come to Omicron, put up with a few scientists poking at you, and then settle in! Except that unlike the Guardians, this guy's discount was larger. If I had known THAT when I'd come to Omicron, the institute could have signed ME up!

By the time we had landed back on Omicron, this guy had good-naturedly put up with my complaining and I had answered most of his questions about the science institute and the colony. Everybody knew about the science institute. You could take the tour when you were off-shift if you wanted to watch some very dull experiments being done. I had done it a few times. We parted at the shuttle terminal, and that's the last I saw of him until I took the tour again. I was surprised I actually recognized him. I usually didn't remember people from the shuttle flights.

Well, YOU do it thirty gazillion times and see how many people YOU remember.

Anyway, this guy stopped whatever he was doing and waved at me, which probably was why I remember him. He was in a group of 'bots who all had wires leading into their chests, and even as he waved a group of scientists gathered around him, chattering and taking notes. He didn't look like he was offended by the sudden attention. Kind of pleased, really. He probably got a bonus on his land discount for every time the doctors singled him out.

I absently noticed a reference to it in the news that night. The whole science community was exciting about some quality they had found in him and a couple others. Something about spark resistance. I don't know; I didn't really care at the time. I was bemoaning courier duty on my next shift.

There wasn't much else to do on the colony yet, so I ended up taking the institute tour again. Things changed in there, if nothing else. There was once a laser array that turned everything a weird shade of orange that I thought was entertaining, but they got rid of that. This time, though, I saw the guy from the shuttle storming down the hall yelling that he'd had enough, and there was a whole bunch of scientists running after him trying to get him to reconsider.

Stupid me, I waved.

He recognized me, of course, and came over to rant about nothing while those scientists kept trying to calm him down. Eventually, he let himself be led back the way he'd come. I thought it was kind of funny, especially when one of doctors asked if I could talk with the guy for a little while, like I was some sort of close friend. But, slag, I was bored enough that I agreed. Why not?

I kept asking myself that when he was pacing around the room. He wasn't ranting about nothing anymore. He had picked a topic, and it was a disturbing one.

In every 'bot, there's the potential to go insane. In insanity, there's the potential to be violent or passive. In violence, there's the potential to turn it inwards or outwards. In turning violence outwards, there's the potential to murder a few or massacre many. In massacring many, there's the potential to repent or revel. In reveling, there's the potential to do it again…

Do you see the spiral? You keep making choices and going deeper, circling around and around…

He started at the top, and his voice rose with every turn. Pretty soon he was hysterical, and I half-expected him to run out the room yelling again. But instead he began telling me about the experiments. What they were doing to his spark. He seemed calm when it came to that, but it made me glad I hadn't signed up for it. I mean, the way he explained it was very rational and logical, but I wouldn't want people messing with MY spark. But the link between his spark and his mind was what had brought him to this point, apparently. His spark appeared to be doing fine, and the scientists were very pleased. But the longer this went on (he told me), the more he felt like something inside him was building out of control. It was burning him up from the inside, and he was balanced on a razor's edge, trying to dodge laser blasts with his optics turned off. And he wouldn't be able to dodge every blast; he'd slip, and he'd be cut to pieces as he fell. What was left…he wasn't sure what would be left, but whatever it was that was burning him up would take over.

He had thought about telling the scientists, but he was afraid. It might just be his imagination. He wanted to stay on Omicron, and he wanted to finish this experiment. The longer it stretched out, the bigger his discount would be. Besides, he liked the attention his spark was getting. Whatever it was about him, he had been chosen out of the few 'bots who had passed the first tests.

But he was terrified. The spiral he had been ranting about hadn't been something he thought about normally. It had never occurred to him until the last couple of days, and now he couldn't get it out of his mind. Each new test sharpened the razor, made the lasers more accurate, and he was terrified of what would be left behind if he fell. What scared him the most, however, is that he felt that he would be the one to make the fatal choice that would start the chain reaction, begin the spiral.

I'm not a psychologist. I don't pretend to be. But I asked him if there was anything I could do.

He told me. I laughed at him.

I wish now that I hadn't.

He turned away, tired, even as I tried to apologize, still laughing. I couldn't believe that's what he really wanted. I thought he was kidding! Finally, he asked for something else: come and visit him. What the slag—I didn't have anything else to do most of the time. He wasn't really a friend, but my social life wasn't that great, anyway. Guardians don't have regular enough schedules for social calendars. And even though he wasn't a prisoner here, the scientists didn't like him going places they couldn't monitor his spark. It was a guilt thing.

So I visited him. It was nice to be able to complain to somebody who didn't have the same complaints as I did, for once, and I returned the favor by just listening to him. He got less coherent as time went by, more obsessed, but there was always the same theme in his ranting: that spiral. I thought it was mostly his imagination, but I told him that he should talk to the scientists about it if he was so worried about insanity. He never did. Maybe I should have insisted.

It'll come as no surprise to you that he snapped. You know who he was. The experiment he was in was called the Protoform X project, even though he wasn't really a protoform. Rumors to the contrary, he was never a criminal, never insane, never anything but a would-be colonist. The only way the project was a secret was that it was put in plain sight, and anyone who took the tour could see it happening. When you can see it happening any time you want, it's not interesting enough to take a second look at.

Perhaps you're thinking that after everything I've told you, I should pity this guy. I don't. I recognized his body when he entered the shuttle terminal where I was on courier duty (again), but just because he's physically there doesn't mean he's the same person. He was right. He took that wrong step, and it killed him. What was looking back at me was an out-of-control psychopath searching for his next victim. I just didn't see it at first. All I saw was the guy I knew opening the doors and stepping inside the terminal. I didn't know that he had just slaughtered the colony; the terminal was soundproofed to spare the neighbors the sound of the shuttle taking off. I hadn't heard the neighbors screaming for help. I saw this guy opening the doors, covered with mech-fluid, and I thought it was his. I thought HE needed help.

Stupid me, I waved.

I don't know why he didn't rip my spark out like he did the shuttle pilot's, or the neighbors, or every other colonist's. He knew I was still alive after he hurled me through the wall. If he could track the last colonist's spark down so he could tear it out, then he knew I was still alive. If he took the time to find every single colonist, then he could have taken the time to kill me, too. Why he didn't, I don't know. Hatred is unconditional, and he hated everyone. By that right, I should have died. It took me three days spent desperately trying to find another survivor before I realized it hadn't been an accident I had lived. I had three days to build my hatred, destroy the mental image I had held of this guy as my friend. He wasn't the same person, anymore. By the time I found a working radio, I still didn't know X's motives for keeping me alive, but I knew my hatred wouldn't return the favor. Someone had already discovered Starbase Rugby, and help was on the way.

There wasn't anyone alive on Rugby, either. I was a phenomenon. I wasn't sure they would let me go. There were people concerned about my mental health, my physical health, my story, ect…there were some 'bots who even thought that I had been the killer, but there were a few functioning security cameras that had recorded enough to back my story up. That's probably when the legend of Guardians began. I might have started it myself, the way I kept insisting that I needed to bring X to justice for what had been done. I didn't care. I still don't. I hated him, and I still do. That spiral the guy I knew talked about? Notice how there's a choice for every turn in it? He had to make those choices. Despite everything he said about feeling helpless, there was still that first, fatal step. He made the choice. He ripped those emotions out and left nothing but hatred for the universe. He let that killer take his place.

Rampage I hate unconditionally, but I don't hate the guy I knew. Even knowing he took that first step, I think I still actually like him, and I can't forget the times that he put up with me complaining about being a Guardian. I can't forget how I listened to him. It might be why I'm here, now, doing this. I hate the thing that took his place, and there will be justice. Justice means bringing him to trial, alive…but there are no conditions for hatred.

* * *

The two fighters were struggling at the bottom of the ocean, at a stand-off: Depth Charge held a shard of energon in his hands, kept away from the spark glittering inches beneath it by only Rampage's hands. The crab laughed, apparently unafraid of the threat as Depth Charge strained to push the shard down. 

They were eye to eye, and for a moment, Depth Charge thought he was mistaken. Emerald optics glared back at him, the faint light that reached down here spinning down into the empty green glass, and there, at the bottom of the spiral…someone looked up at him. It might have been his imagination, it might have only been a trick of memories and lights, but—

--Rampage let go of the energon shard.

* * *

Once, the person I had known had asked me to do something…and this time I don't laugh. I don't think he's kidding. And even if he was, I no longer have any pity for the monster. 

I know now why I survived Omicron. I wish I didn't.

My hatred is unconditional.

His isn't.

* * *


	15. The Only Choice

_The past won't stop haunting his future._

* * *

**The Only Choice**

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

One of the strangest misconceptions organic lifeforms have about Cybertronians is that robots don't dream. We do. Perhaps the difference between sentient machinery and plain computers is that simple ability for our consciousness to wander when we go offline, but I don't really know. All I know is that I dream more than the normal 'bot. At least, that's when they told me when I sought help back on Cybertron. I wouldn't call them dreams, though; nightmares would be more accurate. Where other robots only dream when they are offline, the nightmares come to me whenever there's nothing to disturb them. Silence became my enemy long ago, well before the Beast Wars started. I still hear the screams when it's quiet. 

Or maybe even 'nightmare' is misleading. Memories, perhaps. I recognize many of the screams, after all. Not all, thank Primus, but many of them. Even the memory capacity of a regular computer fails to record every pleading for help or shriek of agony. For that I am glad. There are too many already lodged in my mind. The other Predacons sometimes call me a slow thinker, but I didn't used to be. Not very smart, or just unable to concentrate around the din of screaming? Give me enough time, and I can invent things Tarantulas marvels over and Blackarachnia envies. For that, though, I need undisturbed time to think and work, and I have a tendency to avoid that when I can. The screams become clearer.

There are times that I can't remember if I've ever left the battlefield at all, the screams are so dense inside my mind. I look down expecting to see another victim of an electronic discharge field on the table, or maybe this time someone who had lost limbs to shrapnel. We won't be able to save the limb, of course. Not enough supplies for that, and there's only enough CR Tanks for the wounded officers. Of those we have too many, but no one grudges them the life-saving machines. Unlike the Maximals, our commanders lead us into battle and are the last ones off the field of war when we're forced to retreat. That's how it used to be, at least. The higher the rank, the less likely they are to actually do that anymore. It's okay, though; out here on the front there aren't many of the highest rank. Medical aides are assigned to dealing with the CR Tanks and their occupants whenever they can be spared, but usually anyone with the briefest medical training is needed for the flood of wounded who don't have the chance at being saved by the machines. Standing orders are to have our recovering patients who haven't been discharged from Emergency yet care for the officers who limp, drag, or are carried in. The medics can't be spared for them. Our patients are just plain warriors.

I slap a sealant patch over the worst of the rips in this one's armor, trying to stop the flow of mech-fluid through the gash. Two of my aides are struggling to hold him down while he shrieks with pain. His optics flare, and I reach up from securing the patch to catch his face and force him to look at me.

"Stay with me," I order urgently, but he jerks again from the pain, his face pulling away as his back arches. Helpless to stop his agony, I turn back to the shrapnel tracks scarring his torso. "Cauterize!" I yell at the last member of my surgical team as the patient convulses again and one of the scraps of metal imbedded in his upper thigh pierces a major fluid line. She pounces on the gushing wound immediately with a welding torch, and there is no hesitation as she prevents his life from bleeding out while condemning the entire limb to amputation. Once the fluid line was burned shut, the patient's leg would lose most of the mech-fluid supply and also cut off the normal flow of mech-fluid to the fluid pump. It wasn't fatal right away, but another surgical team further back in the Predacon lines would have to lop off the leg and reroute the major line to another connection to restore the flow. We hope limbs lost like this could be rebuilt later, but this is Emergency—we try to save life, even at the cost of limb.

"INCOMING!" someone shouts over the intercom, and my team reacts instinctively: two of the aides grab the supply carts standing on either side of the surgery table, and the last aide and I hunch over the now-offline patient defensively. A sound like the air itself is shrieking angrily, and then the ground rocks like it wants to throw us from our feet. Despite bracing ourselves, the aide who had dropped the welding torch to grab a cart lost control of it and the patient slides from underneath me. The cart tips over with a crash, but the aide abandons it to dive for the wounded warrior as he falls to the floor.

"They're getting closer," the aide who still has a cart says shakily as he steadies it before ducking down to pick up as many of the spilled supplies from the other cart as he can. "That was right on top of us." Those supplies were his responsibility, more so than the patient now on the other side of the table from him; I know because I had specifically ordered him to be in charge of the carts. The supplies would save many more patients than the one we labor over desperately at the moment.

In vain.

"Slag! Vital signs fading—gone!" His head pillowed in her lap, the aide had her hands pressed to the warrior's chest, blocking wounds and monitoring his fluid pump at the same time. It's useless and I know it, but I start resuscitation anyway only to be interrupted:

"Direct hit on Level 3! I repeat, direct hit on Emergency Level 3!" the intercom screeches, and we all freeze in horror. Level Three is small, made up entirely of surgery rooms for cerebral cases. Only 'bots with serious head injuries dealing with reconstructing the delicate circuitry are sent there, but Emergency has so many cerebral cases that every surgery room on that Level is packed with patients. A direct hit there would have—! "All available medics to Level Three! The Maximals have broken through the front ranks--all personnel: BEGIN EVACUATION OF EMERGENCY!"

I flinch, then look away from the dead patient before me. It's useless to try and bring him back to life when we couldn't afford to move him with the evacuation, and the Maximals, despite claiming to be more merciful than the Predacons, wouldn't hesitate to slaughter any patient left behind in the medical facility. It had happened before. "We're available," I say grimly, and the aides nod. The one who had cauterized his wound only moments ago puts the warrior's head down gently and rises to jot down his time of death as the others load the supply carts and I sterilize the table automatically for the next surgeon who might have time to use it before we evacuated. "You," I point to one of the aides standing behind a cart. He's the one in charge of the supplies; I have no idea what his name is. All I know is that he's good with organization, and we need as many of those kind of 'bots as we can get where it counts. "I want you to help with the evacuation. You," I point at the aide writing down the time of death, and she stares back with wide optics, "take his place. I'll make do with only two aides. MOVE, people!" I bark as I run out the door, and the two aides rush after me wheeling their carts. We join other medics and their aides heading for Level Three, still spattered with mech-fluid from their last patients but still trying to save lives. That's what we do, here in Emergency.

The Maximals will never understand that. They say we Predacons are merciless killers who only want to conquer the universe. They say they're the brave protectors of Cybertron. They say a lot, but I've learned not to listen to propaganda. My faction says a lot about us, too, and I KNOW some of the slag they spout isn't true. It helps inspire fear and inspire loyalty, but it's not necessarily true. One of the things our leaders say about us is that we kill prisoners; from personal experience, I know that's pure propaganda to inspire fear in our opponents. In Emergency, our orders are to help anyone who's brought to us. We've gotten groups of prisoners before, and I'll admit that it shakes my faith in my faction when the Maximals see medics and beg us not to kill them. It always helps that we never do.

...except when we have to. We're front-line medics. We're the Emergency medics. We're not supposed to kill; we're supposed to save lives. But I remember one time a Maximal posing as a wounded prisoner of war took out his guard and started to slaughter the nearest patients. He managed to kill 13 patients, damage 6 more, and was finally brought down by 3 aides. Four of the damaged patients died later from their injuries along with all three of the aides. Maximals? Are they not merciless killers, too? Those three aides were studying to become medics because they have the same problem I do: we're pacifist Predacons. We can't approve of the war, yet we believe in the Predacon cause…so we do what we can to help the victims of the war stay alive. We're a small fraction of the Predacons, but our faction DOES acknowledge that we exist and are a vital part of the war. That's how we get permission to treat Maximal prisoners. We'd do it anyway if it wasn't included in our orders.

Maybe the Maximals treat Predacon prisoners the same way, but I'm really not sure. Emergency moves with the front line, and when it advances we see what the Maximals leave behind. Our medical facilities that the Maximals had taken just days before are still full of the patients we didn't dare move. The difference is that they're dead, now. Shot, blasted, bombed, stabbed—maybe it's just front-line scare tactics, but I've never heard of Maximal propaganda including THAT.

It's war, though. We all do things we regret later by the time it finishes. The Predacons and Maximals eventually came to an uneasy peace, and I remember than the peace treaty included surrendering certain hot spots to the other faction's justice. One of those spots was part of the front lines…which included Emergency. I stood with my fellow medics, our aides assembled behind us, and we were judged by a panel of Maximals for 'war crimes.' War crimes? In Emergency!

The screams of dying patients still ringing in my audios, I stood before those Maximals as the senior medic and laughed bitterly. I hadn't been the senior medic until a last missile, reclassified as 'friendly fire' since the treaty had gone into effect only cycles before, had scored a direct hit on Emergency's facilities. It had taken out a meeting between most of the senior staff that I had only missed it because one of my surgery patients had developed a clot in a fuel line. I told the panel of judges that as the medical staff whispered behind me, frightened and uncertain of their fates, and then I told them who the patient had been: a Maximal I had released from Emergency right before the Maximal soldiers had come to round up all of the Predacon staff. War crimes? Yes, we were fighting a war, but our enemy was neither Maximal nor Predacon, and we would never give up our fight until we dropped on the battlefield, saving as many lives as we could on the way down.

The Maximals talked among themselves quietly for a moment, then let us go. I walked out of there still hearing screams. Even after the last patient was discharged from Emergency and the facility was shut down; even after I took up the study of science I had abandoned during the war; even as I tried to rebuild my life. The screams were waiting in the silence. They slowed my mind and dulled my reflexes. Anyone who had known me in Emergency would be shocked by the changes in me.

Especially since I'm involved in the Beast Wars, now. Combat was a reluctant last measure for me, and I think it still is. But one day I met a Predacon whose dreams were as relentless as mine, although less nightmarish. Megatron told me about them, and I listened, and the screams receded before his voice. He had a dream for the Predacons, and if I would come with him, nothing would stand in our way…he swayed me with that, but I am loyal to him for reasons different from what he believes. Slag, they're probably different from what all the other Predacons believe!

I stand by Megatron not because I really believe in his cause anymore, or because he's a great leader, or because I can't stop him. There's a little of all of that, true, but I'm loyal because it's the only choice I have. I was an Emergency medic, and my job was to save lives. Listening to Megatron, once upon a time, I looked that responsibility straight in the optics again. The screams of my patients echo in my mind even now, but I accepted that responsibility once more because if I didn't, who would? This Predacon trusted me, and I knew I could influence him through that. Maybe not a lot, but more than anyone else could. If he succeeded in his goal, the universe would be open to his conquest…and he is a 'bot with no mercy. I am loyal because I wish to stand at his side, acting as his mercy. The universe is full of lives, and if there is the slightest chance of saving some of them, I will risk it. How much worse would the nightmares be if I didn't?

* * *

"Hey, Scorpinok!" Terrorsaur waved from beside the monitors he was watching. "Heard this one? What do you get if you chop off a Maximal's arm?" 

The scorpion didn't even look up from the computer screen in front of him. "Is there a CR Tank available?" he responded almost absently.

The pterodactyl frowned. "Um…no. C'mon, just guess!"

"Three severed fuel lines and at least four major surgeries. Five, if you sliced through the shoulder joint and opened up the circuitry," Scorpinok said automatically, and he didn't appear to notice that the pterodactyl was now gaping at him. "Why?"

Terrorsaur closed his mouth and shook his head incredulously. "It's a JOKE, shell-head. A joke!"

A puzzled look came over the second-in-command's face, and he finally looked up at the other Predacon. "A joke? How is that funny?" he asked.

"I was gonna tell you that—oh, nevermind!" Terrorsaur threw up his hands and turned away. "You're a slagging idiot sometimes, shell-head," he muttered just loud enough to be heard but softly enough that he could claim he was talking to himself if Scorpinok pushed the issue.

Scorpinok merely shook his head, the confused look slowly fading from his face as he went back to working on the computer.

* * *

I had lightening reflexes, once upon a time. I had a quick wit that would stun any of the 'bots who know me now, and I used to laugh a lot. I lost the humor before the fast reflexes, but like the reflexes, it hasn't come back. I'm not really GRIM, but…well, it's not that I don't get the jokes, it's just that I don't usually care to laugh at them. I find little amusement in the midst of a war. 

We fight the Maximals here on this planet; I hate the necessity, but I understand it. At least there are enough CR Tanks here for all of us. If one of the Predacons dies, it won't be on my table. I know, however, that if Megatron succeeds we'll need another Emergency up by the front lines again. The Maximals will probably never know that it's there then because I'm here now.

It's not loyalty—it's a choice. I recognize the screams in my mind, and while most of them are Predacon, some of them are Maximal. What I do now is for all of those victims of war. I will stand by Megatron so I can do what I can to save those in his way. It's my choice.

The only choice I have.

* * *


	16. Through Their Eyes

_He calls two planets home, and no one else understand him. Or maybe he doesn't understand them?_

* * *

**Through Their Eyes**

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

Sometimes I almost feel like I'm not one of them. 

Oh, I don't mean it as dramatically as I once told Optimus Primal and Dinobot. Obviously, I have to be involved in this war to stop the Predacons. What other option is there besides fighting? At the time, Snowstalker's death made my mind too grief-crazed to think through my actions clearly, and I thought withdrawing from the Beast Wars would solve my problems. I was wrong. I had to rejoin the battle for my friends and for this world.

It seems to me that I'm the only one who cares enough to fight just for the sake of this planet. The Maximals and Predacons fight for their future, for the future of Cybertron. Everything is fought for the sake of the future…yet I walk this world in my beast mode and look through its eyes, and I cannot fight for that future. I see the destruction the Predacons and Maximals alike leave in their wake, and I fight to stop that devastation. Here. Now. The future is a distant time away; Cybertron a place I've never seen.

No, this world is not my home. Metal slides beneath white fur where muscle should be. My mind is complex beyond anything natural. I was not born; I was not grown. I was programmed and designed. I am a Cybertronian. I know that. I know that I don't belong here. I stand here on a planet far from where I should be and look out over the world through optics of glass and metal, seeing the earth torn with the burns and scars of recent battle, and I was in that battle. It was good to stand by my fellow Maximals and fight for the future, for Cybertron. It is, after all, my home.

But energon build-up forces me to transform, and unnatural optics disappear beneath a layer of organic flesh and fur. They dim and go offline, no longer needed. The way my body folds and twists together in transformation places them elsewhere than my beast mode's face, and instead of optics, tiger eyes open to give me vision once more.

…and the world changes. Before me lies the wounded earth, and no more can I see it as a necessity in the fight against the Predacons. It was not good to stand beside the Maximals. What right do we have to sacrifice this living world for a cold metal planet far away? What right do we have?

We should leave and free this poor planet of our warfare, but that can only happen when the Predacons are no longer a threat to the future of Cybertron. Until then, the earth wails in pain beneath my paws as lasers burn and missiles explode, and how can I not try and stop that pain? I am one with it, fur and flesh and eyes. Just a child of the earth, trying to ease its agony. I am closer to it than Cybertron, for my memories begin here. What do I have of Cybertron? Facts and stories, but nothing personal of my own. It is my home…yet this is my world.

So I fight for it. Not for the metal planet that I came from, not for the future, not for anything but the here and now. I look through the eyes of a tiger, and so I fight.

Perhaps it isn't right that I don't fight for Cybertron. I know that I don't fit in. I spend more time alone in the wild than in the base with the other Maximals. I am closer to the earth than to my fellow Cybertronians, but I have tried to explain my thoughts to some of them. I tried to tell Dinobot, but he doesn't fight for anything BUT the future. Rattrap said that I was getting mushy in my head. Cheetor simply looked at me in puzzlement before changing the subject. And Optimus…he tried to understand. He told me that he couldn't quite grasp what I was saying from his point of view.

His point of view? Perhaps…

I feel such passion for the protection of this world because I've seen what has been done to the home of my beast mode through its own eyes. The other Maximals fight so determinedly for Cybertron because they can see how much damage could be done to their home if they don't. Why couldn't they fight for this world, too? If they could just see what was happening around them now instead of what might happen in the future…but that's from my perspective.

Sometimes I almost feel like I'm not one of them, Maximal or even Cybertronian. Maybe my mistake all along is that I've been watching them through the eyes of a tiger, not understanding that I, too, am fighting for the future in my battle to save this world. I've seen Optimus study the plant-life, Rhinox catalog the stars and the geography. I've seen Cheetor run with the cheetahs and Rattrap eat all the garbage he can hold. They live on this world with me. They fight for their future…but also for the planet? I don't know. Always before I've thought of them as inconsiderate of the living earth they tear apart, and so I've stayed away from them, roaming the wilds. But…perhaps I just need to look at the world through their eyes.

* * *

The CR Chamber opened with a slight hiss, and Tigatron stepped out, battle-damage repaired. He nodded to the rhino waiting in front of him as he dropped into his beast mode. "I'll just continue my patrol, Rhinox." 

Cheetor looked up from stalking down the hall as he headed for the nearest exit. "Hey, Big Cat! Help me pin Ratface to the deck, will ya?"

He looked down at the smaller cheetah and tilted his head to the side inquiringly. "Why would you want to do that? Has he done something to you?"

Sitting back on his haunches and scratching vigorously behind one ear, Cheetor still managed to nod. "Yeah, I'll say! He left a moldy hunk of…of SOMETHING in my room!" He finished scratching and pointed one forepaw at the floor. "See? I'm following the trail of crumbs."

Indeed, there was a dribbled path of food bits down the side of the corridor, and after one sniff Tigatron could tell that Rattrap had definitely been the one to leave it in his wake.

"When I catch up with him..!" Cheetor swatted dramatically at the air in front of himself, batting at an imaginary rat.

Tigatron chuckled and shook his head. "Sorry, Little Cat. I'm going back out on patrol in—"

"Aw, c'MON!" Cheetor whined. "You're ALWAYS out doing something! Can't you just have some fun with me for once?"

Tigatron sighed as the cheetah looked at him with exaggerated, sad kitten eyes. "Well, I…" He paused and reconsidered. How long had it really been since he'd tried to do anything with the Maximals? It was beginning to seem like they only met during battles…not exactly the best of times to try and talk, to understand.

"Big Cat?"

"…alright, Cheetor. Let's hunt down Rattrap."

* * *

For the sake of a planet far away through space and time, I hope I'll eventually be able to see through their eyes. 

Until then, I hope they might see through mine.

* * *


	17. What Dreamers Dream

_A different view of the AntiChrist._

* * *

**What Dreamers Dream**

**by Lady Dementia**

* * *

It saddens me that the Maximals think I am their enemy. Perhaps I am, but I don't think of myself that way, nooo. I am not a Maximal nightmare. I am, quite simply, their dream. 

Maximals, you see, are the only faction that dreams of strong leaders who will bring Cybertron to a golden age of an empire…and then tries to kill that leader. It reminds me of an ancient human story I once heard: a group of the flesh creatures waited for centuries for a savior to come and lead them. When this man came, however, all the people who had wanted him to come were angry because he wasn't what they had expected. Supposedly, this savior had been expected to lead an army and crush this group's oppressors; instead, he lead through words and peace. This was the man who the Maximals wanted. Like this human group, they dreamed of a savior to bring Cybertron back to its former glory. They dreamed of someone to lead them, but they wanted someone like this Jesus man. The humans wanted me.

Somehow we got switched in delivery, yesss.

But the Maximals seem to be taking their ideas for how to deal with me from the human group…what was its name? Jews? That sounds about right. Anyway, the humans ended up killing Jesus in some kind of horribly slow way as a result of his peaceful preaching. I will also be executed, although for my violence, I believe. My death with probably be mercifully quick as compared to this Jesus' because of the Maximals' belief in that sort of thing. Or perhaps I will be thrown into prison to rot as an example to other Predacons; either way, I am too dangerous to be allowed to live free, yesss. My ideas are too radical, the other Predacons too willing to follow them. Although Dinobot's betrayal at the end, one of my most trusted followers, seems like another parallel with Jesus; he was betrayed by a trusted follower named Judas. Our stories are so similar, yesss. We are revolutionaries in our times.

How could I be otherwise? The Maximals dreamed of me, and so everything I am has come from them. Their victory in the Maximal/Predacon war and the resulting post-war economic depression caused them to look for someone to bring them out of it. They wanted another Megatron. Someone to lead Cybertron strongly. I am that someone, but these Jews, these Maximals—they don't agree. They wanted another Optimus Prime…but I am what they NEEDED, yess. I would lead Cybertron to conquer an empire! That is what the Maximals want, though they disguise it with treaties and colonies. When they see their much-flaunted peaceful efforts failing, when they see the empire not appearing…that is when they dream of me. Every Cybertronian has an almost rabid love of our homeworld, a lust to see it expand to the potential power they see in it, a vision of a Cybertronian empire. I am simply the result of that dream.

Jesus led through the promise of eternal life and an empire at the end of time. I see that as foolishness, and I believe the Jews had it right to kill him. I would have conquered their oppressors, promising an empire now, not later. An eternal life for each warrior who falls in the conquest, remembered forever by those who live in the empire they helped carve out. I would have made Cybertron rich and powerful through my leadership, promising the gratification of an empire they can touch and see NOW. The promises of Jesus are thin and vague compared to mine.

So perhaps this Jesus and I are opposite sides of the same coin. We are not what are people wanted, we are different from each other…yet we are very similar. It might have been my destiny to end this way, as he did. What would that make me, then? The AntiChrist? I am just the product of dreams. Not the Maximals' enemy, nooo, but their savior.

A pity they refuse to see it that way, yess.

* * *

Optimus stood before the glowing bars and stared at the 'bot standing inside the cell before him. Glowing bars were wrapped around the dragon Predacon, but still this Transformer was too dangerous for the Maximal leader's taste. Right now Megatron was looking straight at him, but…there was something wrong with the way he was looking at him. 

It was as if he was looking THROUGH him, Optimus decided. There had been no reaction when he'd walked in, as if Megatron was too deep in his thoughts to be distracted. Most disturbing of all, however, was the slight smile of genuine amusement on his face. Megatron almost seemed to be sharing a joke with someone.

That wasn't right. It didn't fit with Megatron's usual course of action. Optimus thought it over as he turned to leave again. Maybe the captured Predacon was just fatalistic, now. Megatron had to know that he would be turned over to the Maximal High Council for judgment as soon as the shuttle arrived on Cybertron. There was little hope for freedom for him ever again.

He felt Megatron's gaze on his back as he left, and he had no idea how close to the truth his thoughts really were…

* * *

Is this how it will be, then? Trapped in this cell until the Maximal High Council sentences me to death or imprisonment? Somehow I doubt anyone will speak on my behalf, nooo. 

Ah, well. What comes will come. If it is truly my destiny, then nothing I do will change it. I wonder, though, what Jesus thought when he was brought forward for trial. Did he feel this sense of betrayal? I may appear to be the AntiChrist to these Maximals, but to me they are just misguided Cybertronians. The people I was supposed to lead.

In time they may realize their mistake. I don't know much of the rest of the human Jesus' story, but I've pieced enough together enough to learn he became a symbol, a martyr, that eventually brought his teachings world-wide. So my death might be for the best, after all.

I could have been accepted as what dreamers dream, not as the enemy of a dream, but I suppose it's too late for that, yesss.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** I deliberately kept the story vague on the particulars of the Jesus story because it's from the view of someone who probably only heard it in passing and wasn't really that interested at the time of hearing it. Remember, this is a point of view fic, so I wrote it how the character might see it._


	18. A Fairy Tale

_Define a villain in real terms._

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Hasbro owns the Beast Wars, and I own the plot. No profit was made. I think this is the last in the unofficial series that I've written…have I missed anyone?

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**A Fairy Tale**

By Lady Dementia

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Once upon a time…

No, wait. That isn't right. This isn't your average fairytale, after all. I'm no prince, she's no princess, and we're living this time right now. This isn't a beautiful story, this isn't a love story, and this definitely isn't a story about the good guys. How often do you get a fairytale from the perspective of the villain?

But, anyway, there were two 'bots. The first time we met, I fell all over myself to win her, and I thought I did. Oh, I thought so. She looked into my optics with that sweet, poisonous little smile on her lips as she whispered what she knew I wanted to hear.

Do you know what "I love you" means? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Or rather, it means the world to the one it's being told to, but nothing to the person actually saying the words. She might smile at you and say the three magic words, make your fuel-pump skip a beat, but then she'll turn on you. Love? What's that? It's a word, nothing more, nothing less. It doesn't mean a thing unless there's something behind it.

You'd swear that she meant every word, every promise of a future together, but she's a good actress. She disguises a frightening mix of cruelty and intelligence inside those curves, like rotten filling in a candy-coated sweet, and she even sells herself with whispered nothings to the eager 'bot who wants a taste. Buyer beware: she'll convince you that it's spice, not rot, that fills her. And once she's inside you, the center of your world, the focus of your life…that's when suddenly she pushes you away.

She couches it in the calmest of words before leaving you behind, shocked, hurt, and unable to do more than stare at her back. If it were anyone else, you'd put a dagger there. But it's her, and you love her, and so you can't. Clever, isn't she? I still love her even as she walks away, hanging off of her new toy's arm without a glance back at me. She has no more use for me, and now it's time for her to start another game with someone who holds what she wants.

She leaves a hollow behind her where she once was in my life. What takes her place? What's left for me now? The guy always falls for the girl in the fairy tales, but there are no Predacon fairy tales. It's always the good guys who win. I know how it is; when the war's over, I'll be shown as the villain she escaped from. I don't have any hope of winning the Beast Wars, of being on the side that turns out to be good. There aren't any delusions of benign intentions in the Predacons. I ain't Silverbolt, though, to be turned away by a lack of honor.

Some people can change over to the Maximals. I can't. Oh, for her I might have tried, but what's the point? She doesn't want me. I'll never be the hero.

In my own way, though, I have my honor. With me, she would have always been the special one. Ladies are to be protected, cherished, and, above all, respected. I had manners no one ever saw except around her because that's what she brought out in me. I would have gone through the middle of a pitched battle to save her. I would have given anything, done anything, if she'd have just stayed with me.

But all I have left of her is a painful hole in my life. Nobody else can fill it. I know that she used me, but all I know is that it hurts to have to shoot at her in battle. So I'm stuck. I love her, but this hole in me fills with bitterness. I can feel it poisoning me. It turns everything I would have given her into a toxin. I don't want to, but I think that I may learn to hate her someday. Up until I met her, however, I wasn't the bad guy from the fairy tales.

Now…

* * *

He was waiting impatiently for the signal from Megatron when a shadow fell over him. Looking up, he yelped at the sight of Silverbolt soaring over him. "Boss-bot! We got company!"

"Attack, you fool!" Megatron yelled back at him.

Quickstrike popped up over the top of the boulder he was crouched behind, already aiming his snake-head at the Maximals below his position—

--and Blackarachnia stared back at him.

He hesitated. She didn't.

Cybervenom paralyzed his systems. "Sugar...bot…"

"Idiot," she sneered, and she walked away toward the battle.

* * *

Once upon a time, a 'bot fell in love with the most beautiful femme in the land. She betrayed him.

Funny how I'm still the villain.


End file.
